

THE KILDARAN

By Adam Gaffen and Dick Evans

Based on characters created by John Ringo

Cover by Gary X

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, places, or events is purely coincidental and entirely a product of the reader's imagination.

© 2020

All rights reserved. Duplication for personal use is permitted - duplication for resale or retransmitted is forbidden without explicit, written consent of the author(s).

Distribution - or SALE! - from any other source is strictly forbidden and subject to prosecution.

In other words - DON'T DO IT!

This novel would never have been possible without help from many people. First, John Ringo, for creating Mike Harmon and his twisted little universe, then NOT WRITING ANYTHING ELSE about him for years! If you hadn't stopped writing, I never would have picked up the gauntlet.

Chris Nuttall, our final Beta reader and a fellow author – you made that final connection so OBVIOUS, it made the actual editing and revising EASY. THANK YOU!

Dick, my co-author - you added your own perspective and touches all throughout. Without your contributions, this would have been a much poorer work, and I thank you most sincerely!

And finally (though not by any means least), my kids, for putting up with my odd behavior, snarls, and near monomania for the many months of writing, editing, re-writing, re-editing, and so forth and so on. I love you!
PROLOGUE

February

Somewhere in Russia

His name was Ibrahim. A simple man's name. Unassuming. One that wasn't immediately associated with the few surviving 'high level' jihadists battling the Great and Lesser Satans. A purer version of the Western 'Abraham.' A name that the people of the Book would know and be comforted by. Less threatening, and thus safer for travel than those who adopted the Prophet's name as their own.

Or at least, that was the name he gave. He had come from nowhere, at the darkest depths of the struggle against the hated Russians, and rejuvenated them. He brought back their hope, he gave them a purpose, and provided them a plan, backed with his burning faith and cold planning. A faith that burned only a bit less brightly than his eyes, eyes which some said were those of a djinn.

Almost two hundred men crouched in the cold woods of Caucasian Russia, knee-deep in the persistent snows. The frozen winds of late winter easily penetrated their clothes, causing even the most devout mujahideen to shiver. Improvised explosive devices, mostly stolen Semtex studded with nails and set into a heavy metal bowl, lined the trees. On Ibrahim's command they would unleash a lethal hail on the approaching convoy, whose lights were just visible in the distance. One of the mujahideen, battered by the winds, shifted to find any tiny amount of shelter, breaking a branch underfoot.

"Allah's Beard, be quiet!" hissed Ibrahim. "If we fail because they hear you, Nazih -" The threat was left unfinished; Ibrahim didn't have to elaborate. In the months of training that led to this day, he had been an unflinching taskmaster. Dozens of fighters had felt his wrath at their seemingly harmless mistakes. Three had been shot, calmly, casually, as an object lesson to the others. None of the men with him was eager to be next example.

Lesson learned.

The first truck neared their ill-concealed positions. Despite his exhortations, none were willing to completely conceal themselves in the deep snows. But the cover was sufficient to prevent the hopefully unwary guards from noticing the force at a casual glance.

"Wait until they are all among the bombs," he whispered to Hamzah, who held the trigger. The light from the vehicle's own headlamps reflected faintly on the long line of trucks - nearly thirty of them, large, worn vehicles of Soviet vintage, some still bearing the Red Army's emblem on the sides. Three BTR-80 personnel carriers were distributed amongst the trucks. These were the only indications that this convoy was at all unusual.

The lead truck reached the last IED; Ibrahim shouted, "Now!"

With a furious roar, the devices were triggered along the road. The nails, directed by the bowls, shredded engines, tires, and men.

Horns blared, then died, as blood ran down the sides of the decimated trucks. The whole convoy came to a sudden, ragged halt. The tail of the convoy, maybe a half-dozen trucks, slammed on their brakes, panicked by the sudden hell unleashed before them.

Ineffectual, fear-induced gunfire peppered the cloth walls around the truck beds from the inside as the panicked drivers attempted to reverse their way out of the trap.

Rocket propelled grenades lashed out at the BTRs, smashing into, and through, their sides, turning the carriers into cauldrons of flame. The frozen Chechens reared up from their hides and began spraying the targets with their AKs in the typical mujahideen manner, contemptuously called 'pray and spray' by the Satan's dupes. The faithful knew, however, that Allah would guide their rounds to targets, and was it not written that they should submit to the will of Allah? Inshallah. As Allah wills.

A few surviving Russian soldiers leapt out of the trucks and began to return fire, causing many muj to drop into the snow for cover, but they were quickly silenced. Returning fire only drew attention from the Chechens, who then concentrated on their area. Even 'pray-and-spray' was effective when fifty men held down their triggers.

"Up, you dogs!" Ibrahim urged, kicking an unlucky Chechen who was slow to rise. "Stop cowering in the snow! We must collect our prizes, for the godless, cowardly Russian will surely have called for relief! Hurry!"

The rest of the men, leading mules and wagons, emerged from the trees well behind the ambush line and advanced on the butchered convoy. A few moved among the fallen soldiers, shooting each one, while the remainder wrestled with the crates each truck carried. They were all of a similar size, about two-and-a-half meters long, a meter tall and a meter-and-a-half wide.

Ibrahim had planned well; the IEDs had destroyed the trucks and killed many men, but their cargo, well-cushioned and packed for transport, had survived almost completely unscathed. The smallest group, equipped with devices emitting random sounding "ticking" noises, backed off quickly from three crates when the silver box began to scream. These few boxes were left behind.

Within twenty minutes of the first explosion, the cargo looted, their wounded bandaged and riding atop the precious cargo, the fedayeen faded back into the trackless forest. Night would hide them from prying eyes, human and electronic, and the heavily falling snow would bury signs of the ambush. Nature was cooperating. Inshallah.

The bright blue eyes of Kurt Schwenke gleamed in the night, like those of a djinn. Like a djinn, formless, with bodies of smoke, he and his men disappeared into the night. Yet the Chechens had forgotten one part of the tales of the djinn - be careful what you wish for.
CHAPTER 1

Early March

The Valley of the Keldara, Georgia

The Caravanserai

It had been a good few years, Mike reflected, looking out over the Valley.

Mike Harmon, aka Mike Jenkins, aka Ghost, and currently the Kildar, was sitting in his office. Not young any longer, he kept in reasonable shape, though it wasn't immediately apparent by the insidious thickening of his waist he fought daily. Average face, brown eyes, brown hair, with slight changes of manner or dress he could pass as a native in just about any country.

Formerly a SEAL team member, he was now the owner of a valley in Georgia, with a population of "retainers" called the Keldara. Daria Koroleva, a young Ukrainian woman he had rescued and, as it turned out, a damned fine administrative assistant, had announced that "someone important" was coming up to see him. Although there weren't any VIPs in the Valley that he knew of - at the moment - Mike had come in off his balcony to wait - it was March, after all, and still what he called 'brisk' and what most normal people called 'ridiculously cold.' Not having much to do at the moment but wait, he was taking the time to look back. And perhaps face a few ghosts.

After preventing the VX shipment from decimating Disney and Orlando, the Keldara had stayed in the Bahamas a few weeks well-deserved R&R, while the late Juan Gonzales' yacht - rechristened Sudden Stop - had been refurbished.

Gutted, was more like it, taking full advantage of the crew sent over from Little Creek. They had been supposed to return home, but a liberal allotment of good food, beautiful women, great beer, and generous undocumented bonuses persuaded them to stay on to oversee the work. And, also, forget what they did when they finally departed. Luxurious, oh yeah, it was all that. But anyone who wanted to tangle with a nice, soft target like a rich man's yacht was supposed to be would be sorry, sore, and sorely disappointed afterward.

SOCOM had mentioned, somewhat diffidently, that the yacht should be turned over for proper disposal, but a quick call to Bob Pierson at OSOL had quashed that. The Keldara enjoyed the sunshine before beginning the crossing back across the Atlantic, through the Med, and on to the Black Sea port of Sochi where it moored. The customs inspection, though hardly rigorous, had missed every major modification, so he knew that it would pass even a more-than-casual glance. That was good. No point in keeping an ace up his sleeve if wearing a tank top.

They had kept the five cigarette-style boats "borrowed" from a government impound, although not all traveled back with them. One was given, as promised, to Randy Holterman, the Keldara's boat instructor, who went off shaking his head at his quarter-million dollar "tip." And two were left behind in Islamorda, with Captain Don and the original "Too Late," to be cared for and chartered out. The remaining two had been ferried back to Sochi as well, where he maintained them for training and generally blasting across the Black Sea for the fun of it.

Britney had returned to SOCOM, and her role as liaison to the DEA. She had been promoted to Captain after the VX mess and had really risen in prominence in a very small community. She and Mike had continued to stay in touch, tied together by their experience in Syria. After she had visited the Valley, he made one of his rare trips to the States to visit her. Their connection was good for both of them, healing wounds old and new. They had helped each other heal and had parted as friends.

That winter, the first full winter he had experienced here, had almost been fun. For the first time in memory, the Valley of the Keldara wasn't cut off from outside as soon as the snow flew. Oh, there was snow - meters of snow, actually - but there was electricity, and training, and Mike had been right - some of the valley slopes made perfect ski runs, though getting back up the mountain had been a bitch without a lift system.

Maybe next year. That was on the wish list.

The Keldara had at first been stunned by the idea of skiing for pleasure - survival was the usual order of business in winter, not recreation - but it had been integrated into their cold weather training, and quite a number had come to enjoy it. Gennadi Mahona's crop selection had provided an ample bounty that year, enough food so not a single Family went hungry, even allowing some to be stored away as an emergency supply.

Winter ops had been limited, but Master Chief Charles Adams had been positively devilish in the training missions he devised. That'd earned him several new nicknames. Of course, not one was mentionable in polite company...

Spring came and the patrolling expanded in scope, ranging far out from the Valley proper. Small bands of Chechens - survivors of the debacle in Pankisi the previous fall - roamed the eastern mountains at will, raiding farms, stealing food, raping, pillaging, and burning.

It had seemed prudent to extend their control beyond the Keldara's traditional reach, to bring as many of the people into the Five Valleys as wished to move. As a result, the population of the area had nearly doubled, and while they weren't strictly Keldara, they were still tough, mountain farmers.

There was an ugly clash with a multinational corporation, GenetixSeeds. Their usual modus operandi was to find an isolated, socially backward area and 'donate' -.read, infected - other valleys with their own hybrid bastard versions of local seeds. This led to several problems:

The local plants were quickly snuffed out as the more vigorous strain overwhelmed them.

The hybrids turned out sterile, unable to reproduce in the wild, ensuring that the 'beneficiaries' of the donation would be forced to buy more seed or starve.

Finally, representatives of the company had appeared to collect thousands in 'licensing fees;' for the use of their hybrids.

They played dirty.

The Kildar played dirtier.

Enter the Tigers.

No, sorry, have to clear this land. Kildar says. Flamethrowers? That's to ensure that it's completely clear. It's a security issue. Sorry, can't go into any more details. Need to know, dontcha know.

What hybrids?

Fees? For what?

Funny, you say you sent people out here? Never saw 'em. You sure they went to the right place? There are all sorts of bandits out here, you have to be very careful on the roads, you know.

The backhoe operators got plenty of practice.

The Kildar had even donated seed from the Keldara's stocks, paid the farmers for their losses.

The 'discussion' between OSOL and GenetixSeeds' representatives, while still classified, had been copied to Mike. Vanner, Nielson, Adams and Mike laughed for nearly an hour.

Of course, Vadim Tyurin, the local administrator slash cop slash judge slash all government functionary had complained, but a few hundred extra euros had gone a long way to quell that problem. He'd gratefully accepted as reserve officers the worst-wounded from the Keldara's epic battle against the Chechens. They filled a role as firemen, too, as the cash-strapped government of Georgia couldn't even begin to fill the role. Mike paid them a small salary, which salved their pride; Vadim got trusted, reliable men who would support him; and the Families were shown that wounded warriors still had a valuable role. Everyone won.

Mike had even signed off on ordering a used Dutch fire engine, something he'd learned by reading one of the innumerable pieces of paper that needed his signature. He'd learned the hard way to at least glance at the documents he signed; Vanner had a wish list of equipment a mile long, and Stasia! She'd gotten way too familiar with the uses of his AmEx Titanium!

Patrick Vanner, his intel expert, married Greznya Mahona in a tradition-laced ceremony that spring. Given Vanner's fascination with the roots of the Keldara culture, Mike wasn't sure what thrilled him more, marrying Grez or observing the ceremony.

The planting of food crops had expanded further, taking full advantage of the new tractors and their attachments. They'd added acres of the tiger berry bushes, the secret ingredient in the local beer. Mountain Tiger beer, while maybe not the best-known or least expensive brand, was almost certainly the most sought-after, at least in the US and UK.

Gurum, the brewery manager, and Bob Thomas, the distributor, had worked hard over the winter to figure the optimal levels to balance quantity and profit, but it looked like they would need more capacity in short order. Chatham Aviation, Mike's charter company of choice, now carried Mountain Tiger as their only beer aboard their planes. They believed in serving their clients only the best, especially those who could afford their admittedly pricey services.

Mother Lenka couldn't stop laughing whenever she thought of it, since the beer they exported was considered inferior, at best, in the village. It was perfect for the barbarians, however.

There hadn't been much organized Chechen activity. Not a shock, considering the dent the Keldara had put into their forces. The surviving bandits had quickly learned not to screw with the farms under the protection of the Keldara, so combat ops had dropped sharply. Worrying that the routine patrols would quickly dull the finely-honed combat edge, he resolved to add new training to their routine.

In addition to basic militia training for the new residents, using captured Chechen weapons, he had also recalled Don Meller, one of their trainers and a construction expert, and had him create another dam - this one much cruder, just dropping the top of a hill into a ravine and doing a concrete coating - but it made for a hellaciously deep dive training area.

Team Yosif had turned out to be pretty skilled at it - "ducks to water" rolled through his mind, making him smile - and it had kept Mike busy, too working on passing on his dirty SEAL tricks to the new water pups.

In addition, he had had Meller supervise the building of a small clinic and laboratory for the resident doctor and microbiologist, Dr. Tolegen Arensky, who nearly drove him bat-shit, with his over-the-shoulder suggestions and changes. It seemed that every day there was a new addition or deletion, or another unexpected requirement, or - the list went on and on. But Mike had cautioned him to treat this particular microbiologist with kid gloves, and Meller had. He'd earned every penny of the sizeable bonus Mike gave him, too.

In the fall, J and Katya Ivanova, the HumInt side of his intelligence staff, went off for a few weeks as a "favor" to Sheik Otryad in Uzbekistan, taking Shota and his Team of heavies with them, supposedly as backup. He didn't ask, but it was surely an odd request. A heavy weapons team just didn't mesh with the way J worked or the image Mike had of the man.

J was a master spy, who could blend seamlessly into any population he cared to observe, a skill that still made Mike somewhat uneasy. He was the best at what he did, though. And Katya, Cottontail, was his student. A former hooker, the blonde, blue-eyed, barely out of teenage girl was also the deadliest, stone cold sociopath Mike had ever encountered. Initially rented from the local pimp for the imported trainers during the first phases of training, she had been instrumental in the success of many of the Keldara's hairier missions. She had been fitted with bio-enhancing drugs and poison-dispensing fingernails for a previous mission by the US government, and had been put entirely into intel, much to the harem's relief. And Mike's, too. Although he had stopped bedding her long before, he'd obtained and inoculated himself and his command staff with the anti-toxin. Just in case.

J had taken her under his wing, and he had to admit there had been some positive changes since. Mike wondered what the favor for the sheik had been about, since there hadn't been a change in the government, nothing that Vanner could pick up, nothing in the news, but he was a man who paid his debts. He owed Otryad a large one for the 'gift' of Anastasia, Mike's harem manager, so he felt easy letting the two go along, taking Shota and his team and little else. The sheik had said that all equipment would be provided after J's assessment of the mission.

It was like an itch he shouldn't scratch at times, but all had come home healthy and happy as frogs in a pond. Even Shota, who didn't brag, but smiled wider than the tiger who'd caught the big game hunter.

Vanner had added a new quirk to his burgeoning intel team in the fall as well. They were called the Four Blind Mice. Led by Creata, nicknamed 'Mouse' for her demure attitude and diminutive stature, they were as expert a pack of crackers Mike had ever encountered. Hardware, software, smart technology, or blasting powder and an iron safe, it didn't matter, if there was data needed, they could get it. He was still a little uneasy at the 'updates' Mouse had received at the Virginia facility - it felt way too much like he was turning her into a Borg - but she seemed to adjust to it well. And, hell, at this point he couldn't get Vanner to give up his Mice anyway.

Not without bloodshed.

Of course, there was the ugly clash between the Russians and Georgians as well. The Chechens had, for years, used the Pankisi Gorge in Georgia as a base and staging ground with virtually no opposition.

This had been greatly reduced by Mike's operation the previous year, and Russia had been anxious to finally extinguish the smouldering fire such a safe haven represented. President Svaskili of Georgia, however, had different ideas, not because he supported the Chechens. Nor was he a coward; he'd even visited Mike during the height of the crisis, just to be closer to the front.

Corrupt, yes, but also a patriot, he had believed that, if he allowed Russian forces to enter his country for any reason, he would be totally unable to get them to withdraw afterward. He had therefore refused permission for the Russian forces to penetrate Georgian territory, even with Georgian military observers to ensure the destruction only of the invasive Chechens. Prime Minister Putin, the prick, had pushed in anyway. Tensions had risen, and there had been several ugly incidents between Russian and Georgian troops.

Since this was taking place less than an hour's helicopter flight from the Valley, Mike had acted after several Spetnaz teams had been spotted within a few miles.

He had managed to come face-to-face with Putin, insisting that the Russian troops - who had now completed their mission and exterminated their targets - be pulled back across the border. Putin, predictably, and as Svaskili had feared, had refused, seeing an opportunity to regain control of Georgia. Mike made a subtle hand gesture.

One well-placed round from Lasko had convinced Putin of the error of his ways - and that he needed a change of pants - though had done nothing to endear Mike to him. Mike could live with that, although Lasko had bitched unmercifully for weeks afterward that he could just have easily solved the 'Putin Problem' permanently.

Then there were the kids, the children from the Rite of Kardane. Lots of kids, most of them still babbling and crawling, but a few beginning to toddle around, and he could see snatches of himself all about - eyes here, hair there, a way one moved, or sat or... He had to admit to being uneasy at the thought of so many pieces of him running around. Kids were kids, though, and as the days and weeks and now months passed, it really made the Valley feel more welcoming, that he was much more of the Keldara no matter what the future held.

And now another winter had passed. Father Kulcyanov was still holding on, despite a bout with pneumonia that Dr. Arensky had just managed to turn back, and Mike was hoping that he'd make it through one more festival of Balar. There was a new President back in the States. It wasn't the brass-plated bitch from hell he had feared - she was secretary of state! This other guy, Mike had no clue about. Although - he recalled a dinner a few months back, right after the election. Stasia, Katrina (one of the Keldara, and the original poster girl for Mountain Tiger Beer), Vanner, Grez, and Amelia Weston - the wife of a high-ranking General, and had met Mike and Stasia before the Pankisi mission. She had taken up the standing offer to come visit Anastasia, and the talk had turned inevitably to the election and what it might mean for him and the Keldara. A new president might mean that he would be needed less - or at least asked for less.

Katrina was saying, "I heard that there was a new President. He's not from the same club as the last one, is he? Will this affect us here, in the Valley?"

Stasia coughed into her teacup in surprise, but Amelia picked up the question smoothly.

"Oh, no, my dear. Washington doesn't usually work like that. Yes, the parties are different, the ideologies. But the reality of the world, that doesn't change just because we change leaders! Every new president spends many, many days in consultation with his predecessor, bringing in advisors and trying to get a handle on the extraordinary amount of problems he's just inherited. The General and I were at one dinner President Cliff held for the new man. They were discussing, or perhaps I should say hinting, at which world problems and briefings they just can't gloss over or change without major repercussions. After the Georgia-Russia event was settled - and how was that here?"

Mike had answered. "We didn't see much of it, although it has finally put paid to the bandits that had been raiding the area."

"I'm so glad to hear that!" Amelia exclaimed before continuing. "Mike, you actually came up at this briefing, in a sideways reference. Not by name, but as a 'Friend in strange places.' Before the President-Elect could ask any questions that couldn't be answered cleanly, or at least not so openly, Cliff said - now, how did he put it? Oh, yes. 'You have friends at OSOL who can help you in sticky situations. Like the Georgian one. They know people you really want to keep on their good side. People that can get you gifts like this one.' Then - oh, this was too much! - pulled out a photo of your gift from the Syria mission. The poor man! I thought he would need to leave the table, if you get my drift." She smiled merrily. "Dinner was pleasantly quiet after that, though the President-Elect did drink a bit more than was polite."

"So, the new President will respect Michael?" asked Katrina quietly.

"I certainly think so," answered Amelia. "Certainly, your Colonel Pierson will do what he can."

"That's good. I would hate to kill him, just so they left Mike alone and only called on him sometimes." Mike nearly coughed out his coffee at that, but she wasn't done. "We have problems enough in and around the valley, though that is changing too."

Fortunately, Stasia took the situation in hand. "Katrina," she said in Keldara, "You do NOT threaten to kill the president, even if you are not serious. Have you forgotten your lessons about the Secret Service?

"No, Mistress, I haven't forgotten."

"They are well-trained - almost as well-trained as our Tigers - and utterly dedicated to their profession. You would be lucky to survive an encounter with them."

"Who said I would be there?" Katrina's usual fire, never suppressed for long, roared back. "I thought that Katya would be perfect for a mission like this."

Vanner and Mike simply sat and watched the exchange with slack jaws. Was this really Katrina talking about killing a President, even if he wasn't the right party? It was Katrina, after all, so who really knew? Mike wondered what had possessed him to acquiesce to Stasia's request to invite Katrina. Greznya, though, simply added in English, "You really don't want to go there." Then they all noticed Amelia, who was silently laughing.

When she finally caught her breath, she had said, "Oh, dear. I wish you'd been around in the Nixon years, dear! Lots of Rye to reap back then. Mostly chaff no one would have missed. Care for another scone?"

THAT had been an interesting dinner.

One positive from the election, though. At least it had freed up the former president to finally travel to Georgia and drop in for the long-promised "steak and beer." That had been a kick! The Service guys had looked like they were ready to shit themselves when they unassed the chopper, facing a well-armed local militia run by a merc! That had been worth waiting for by itself!

Over the three-day visit the new Nannies - they weren't, really, they were Swedish professional women, professional in every sense, escorts, bodyguards, cooks, maids, secretaries - and his two non-Keldara batmen - he couldn't think of them as butlers - had really smoothed things over, with Stasia's able guidance.

They'd had, what, seven other high-level visits in the past year? All lower on Mike's personal hierarchy, but all were much, much more stressful. The one presidential visit? Easy, relaxing. Just what he needed.

All thanks to Stasia's planning - that, and a serious abuse of his Titanium Agent's AmEx card. The twelve nannies - all gorgeous, of course, tall, blonde, eyes that were like blue ice - had come to the Valley after intensive training at, oh hell, he couldn't remember how many 'academies' and 'classes' they had gone to.

Enough though.

He wasn't sure, but he thought Stasia had taken some liberties in renaming them. They were, let's see if he could remember them all: Eir, Geirdriful, Goll, Gondul, Herja, Hildr, Kara, Mist, Olrun, Reginleif, Sigrun, and Skogul. But these were all names of Valkyries from Norse mythology, so the odds of them all carrying a name like that was, well, minuscule. In any case, that's what they answered to.

His thoughts turned to the upcoming Festival of Balar. Maybe Oleg could keep the Ondah again. Of course, this year Shota might just give everyone a shock...

There was a knock on the door. It wasn't Daria; he knew her knock. He knew both butlers'; not theirs, either. Kurosawa, especially, he knew. Bridgewater, the Brit, was less likely to intrude on his thoughts and privacy. Kurosawa knew no such boundary. On the other hand, the man was a genius with acupuncture herbs, just what his damaged joints needed.

Nor was it timid, or retiring, the knock of someone worried about disturbing him. No, this was a courtesy knock, as if the person had every right to enter Mike's sanctuary and was simply honoring the formality.

"Come."

The door swung open, revealing a young woman in Keldara dress, obviously the finest she had. Kurosawa, short and round, could be seen, resigned, behind her. Her red hair flowed down under her kerchief, blue eyes flashing, as she stood in the doorway with one hand on her hips. "I am the Kildaran and I have come to claim my rights."

"Oh, fuck," Mike muttered.
CHAPTER 2

Mike's Office

"No."

"I am the Kildaran, and I have come to claim my rights," the woman repeated.

"No."

"I am the Kildaran, and -"

"Dammit, Katrina, I said no!" Mike winced. He had thought - no, hoped - that the issue had been settled. Katrina, of the Family Devlich, had been the first Keldara Mike ever met, and she had quickly decided that she was destined to be the woman of the Kildar, called the Kildaran. Perhaps the most unusual of the Keldara girls, she was fiercely intelligent, as stubborn as the Georgian winter was long, and, oh yeah, absolutely incredible looking. Fiery red hair, blue eyes that seemed to pierce him, long legs, and a figure that no man would think of resisting, she had been the first poster model for Mountain Tiger Beer for a good reason. But Mike had hoped that she had finally come to her senses about being Kildaran - it had been months she had last mentioned it. Apparently not.

Katrina's eyes flashed. "And I say yes!"

"Katrina, you know why you can't become -"

"I do NOT! You said I was too young. I have waited until I am 'old enough,' older than any of your harem you have broached! I have fought for you; I am a warrior of the Keldara now."

"But -"

"I have learned from Mother Lenka the secrets of her brew. Everyone knows that I am to be her heir. I have learned from her, too, the secrets of the Goddess. In this, too, I am to be her heir. I have been learning here, from Anastasia -"

Mike nodded, somewhat grudgingly. Anastasia Rakovich, his harem manager, had mentioned that Katrina had been taking instruction with the harem girls. Not surprisingly, she absorbed the basics quickly and had moved on, taking college courses online. At last report, Katrina was about ready to earn a Bachelor's in - what did Anastasia say? He couldn't quite remember.

"And she has taught me more than that. She has given me the classes that she gives - gave - the Kardane girls. So if you think I will be clumsy in bed, or unwilling -."

"I don't think of you in bed." Seeing the fury rising on her face, Mike gestured to a chair. "Please, Katrina, let me explain. Sit." Reluctantly she did so.

"You know some of my past."

"I know you were a SEAL before you came to be the Kildar."

"Do you know why I was traveling?"

"Not really. Nobody in the teams will talk about it, if they know."

"They don't. Besides Chief Adams, nobody in the Valley knows the whole story." Well, almost nobody, he thought. He was pretty sure that Greznya Vanner had pieced together most of his past, but she was the best of the Keldaran intelligence operators, and she hadn't talked. J probably knew, or suspected, most of it as well. "And he only knows because he was there for some of it."

"So, tell me. If this is why you refuse me, you cannot deny me the explanation."

What to tell her? "Before I came to the Valley, I had another name, another life. I was a retired SEAL, taking some classes -" He went on for several minutes, telling her of his rescue of the college co-eds, the killing of Bin Laden and the Syrian President, the nuclear bombs in the Bahamas and in Paris, and how he had to change his name, bury his past. "Every jihadist group on the planet wants me dead, preferably slowly. I had to start over, here. The teams, the training, are as much to protect me as to defend the Valley from the Chechens." He was somewhat disconcerted to see a smile cross her face.

"Kildar, your story is better-known than you think. Oh, not the details, but many of us know that you did brave deeds and were forced to forget your past when you came here." She turned serious. "But how does this make me unfit to be the Kildaran?"

He shook his head. "It's not that you are unfit. Frankly, you probably suit me better than any other Keldara." The smile was back, full radiance. "But I can't risk bringing someone I love into this life, risk losing them to people who are hunting me." A shadow crossed his face. The Keldara practiced the Rite of Kardane; basically, droit de seigneur in return for a dowry. The last girl before Mike stopped the Rite, Gretchen Mahona, had stolen Mike's heart. Totally unexpected, he had battled with his feelings and his obligations for weeks before the matter was settled permanently with her death in battle. It had been months before he had even begun to recover. He shook it off. "I can't risk having someone I love be in a position to become a hostage to those people."

"Ha." Not exactly what he expected. "First, Kildar, what of the children of the Rite? Could they not be hostages?"

Mike shook his head. "Not really. Nobody outside the Valley knows that they're my kids, so they have no special value. Plus, they're here IN the Valley. I don't think that anyone is going to try to get them from here -"

"Again, Ha! You say yourself that this valley is safe!"

"For anonymous little kids, yes. How anonymous do you think you'd be as the wife of the Kildar?"

"I do not wish to be anonymous! I will be proud to be your wife!" Now Katrina let her voice soften. "You know that this should be. You know you want it to be. I can feel it whenever we talk - which is not so much anymore!"

Mike nodded ruefully. "Yeah, I have been kinda avoiding you."

"No longer! Daria has been working with me, too, training me on her job as your administrative assistant." She stumbled just a bit over the words. "Did you know that Daria is planning to leave?"

This was a surprise. "No."

"She has not talked about it, but she is lonely for her home. She wishes to go back. She is not so old that she cannot begin again." Daria was maybe 24, but in this culture that was waaaay into old-maid-dom.

"Katrina, I understand, but my answer is still -"

"You have no choice," she interrupted. She played her trump card. "I have consulted the Elders. It is time, and past time, for you to take your wife from the Keldara. They agree that I am best for you." She tried to look stern, but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away. "They will brook no argument on this, Kildar."

Mike had been many things in his life. SEAL team member, instructor, husband, college student, and now free agent troubleshooter for the US government. But he had never been stupid. So, when faced with the inevitable - stall.

"The Elders are behind this?"

She shook her head. "No. But they agree."

"I can't believe this, but - Let me consult with the Elders about what happens next, and then -" He was cut off by a very girlish squeal as Katrina practically leapt over his desk, landing solidly on his lap and clinging to him. "Oh, Mike!" Then there was no more time to talk, her very kissable lips pressed to his.

What the hell.
CHAPTER 3

Mike's Office

A timeless time later...

"Katrina, stop."

"Mmm?"

"Katrina, I mean it." Mike stood suddenly, dumping Katrina toward the floor. She recovered quickly, and landed on her feet, clothes only somewhat mussed. She wasn't happy, though.

"Mike!"

He didn't allow her more. "Katrina, I have to talk to the Elders, I have to talk to Daria, and Anastasia, and Adams, and..." He trailed off, realizing just HOW complicated this might become. With a quick shake, he continued. "And I'm sure you have to make plans too, and -" He was saved by another knock on the door. "Come!" he cried, gratefully.

Daria entered, Kurosawa at his usual spot by the door. He closed it behind her - was that the hint of a smirk on his face? He'd have to talk to him. Again. "Colonel Pierson on the satellite phone for you." She carefully didn't comment on his, and her, somewhat rumpled looks. Kurosawa must have warned her. Katrina hadn't exactly been quiet with her side of the discussion.

"Thanks." He turned to Katrina. "I need to take this. I'm sure that you have something to do...?" He trailed off hopefully.

"I will be back later, Kildar." With a quick kiss on his lips, a brilliant smile, and a surprisingly lascivious wink, she turned and followed Daria out of the office. No Kurosawa. He hadn't been around long, but he'd learned quickly how these calls affected him. With a sigh, Mike turned to the sat phone.

"Jenkins."

"Pierson," came the voice of Colonel Bob Pierson, Mike's contact at OSOL (Office of Strategic Operations Liaison, or as they sometimes called it, Oh-so-S-O-L). "Go scramble."

Mike entered a code. "Go scramble. What's up, Bob?"

"I know we haven't had much for you lately, Mike," began Pierson.

"No worries. It's actually been nice not having to chase down the scum of the earth for a while."

"Yeah, well, the new administration isn't quite sure what to make of you, Mike. You're neither fish nor fowl -"

" - nor good red meat, I know. At least the SecDef knows me."  
"True, but he still has to take orders from upstairs. We want to use you for certain issues, but they're really reluctant to bring you in on anything not in the States."

Mike's antennae twitched. "Level with me, Bob. I don't do this for the money, I do it because American interests are at stake somewhere. If this isn't going down in the States - just where are we talking about?"

"Russia."

"Fuck no, Bob, I'm not doing a damned thing for those pricks! They hung me - us - out to dry with the Chechens by withholding their intel. You know how many lives they cost me?" Mike's fury was real. The Russian intelligence agencies had known that a large force of highly trained Chechen soldiers, led by one of their varsity, Grigor Sadim, was headed his way on a mission and hadn't passed on the information. While Mike might still have completed the mission - it was a particularly virulent form of smallpox that they were hunting, one that would have wiped out most of the planet's population - he still didn't know if the price the Keldara paid was worth it. "Tell Vladimir to go fuck himself. You can pass that along with my compliments."

"Mike, you really need to -"

"All I NEED to do is figure out what to do with Katrina," he snapped back. This threw Pierson off for a moment.

"Katrina, what? Never mind. Mike, the Russians have lost a shipment of nukes."

That got his attention. Mike had already stopped two attempts by some towel heads to move nukes into populated areas, getting shot up pretty well once. "Okay, Bob, you'd better tell me this story. I don't promise anything, but I'll listen."

"President Medvedev has been quietly increasing the rate they're dismantling their missiles and shipping them to the US to be reprocessed back into fuel."

"About the only smart thing Vlad's puppet has done," added Mike.

"Well, the latest convoy was heading for Novorossijisk, a small port on the Black Sea, where a US-flagged freighter was waiting. Outside the town of Elista, though, they were hit by a good-sized force of Chechens."

"Let me guess. The Chechens won and made off with as much of the convoy as they could manage."

Pierson had worked with Mike far too long to be surprised. "Yes. They didn't take everything, but they did haul off twenty-five warheads."

Mike exploded. "Twenty-five! How the fuck did they do that? Wasn't there any security around them?"

"There was a full company of Spetnaz, but this was very well-planned and executed. None of the intelligence agencies, ours or theirs, had the slightest whisper about this until just a couple days before it went down. Even now we don't know where they've taken them or exactly who has them."

"So how does this affect us?" Mike asked, although he was afraid he knew the answer.

"Besides the fact that you don't want the Chechens to be a nuclear power?" Pierson replied sardonically. "They really don't like you, Mike. You are number one on their hit list, above even Medvedev and Putin, for the ass-kicking you gave them in Pankisi. And with nukes, they don't have to get all the way to the Valley to take you out. Three of these are in the megaton range - two, three, and five."

"Fuck."

"If that's not enough, we have managed to hear enough to figure their other target: Moscow. They're going to hold the city hostage until Chechnya is recognized and the Russians pull all their forces out."

"No way can that be good. So how can I help?"

"We want you to get those warheads back. It's in your best interests, along with ours and the Russians."

"We're going to need lots of help with this." And maybe we can shut down the Chechens for good, he thought.

"I've been assured that anything you need, you get."

"What's the vig?"

"Some more good news there. Ten million per warhead. Double that for the big boys. And double the total if you can recover them all."

Mike's eyes widened slightly. "Over half a billion if we get them all? They are serious about this."

"Never more so. As bad as a single warhead floating around with al-Qaeda was, this is worse. We can't allow a true renegade nation access to nuclear arms. If you can't take care of this, then we might have to get in there ourselves, and I'll be honest with you: after Iraq and Afghanistan, I don't know that our troops are ready to do it again. They're willing, God knows, but they're tired. We need some time to recover."

"I'll get back to you soon." Mike hung up the satellite and picked up the regular phone. "Nielson?"

"Yes, Kildar?"

"Staff meeting. You, Adams, Oleg, Daria, Arensky, Vanner -"

"Which one?"

"Either. No, both."

"Right."

"Dragon and Valkyrie too. Twenty minutes."

"Twenty minutes. What's going on?"

"The Chechens have some nukes. We have to get them back."

"This'll be fun."

Mike grinned. "Not for them."

CHAPTER 4

The Caravanserai

War Room

Mike walked into the conference room and announced, "We've got troubles, people."

"No great surprise," quipped Adams. He had known Mike the longest, back to Class 201, and was, essentially, his second-in-command. "Who do we have to kill this time?"

"Chechens again." A deep, almost subliminal growl rose from the assembly. They all had their reasons to hate the Chechens. "But that's not all. We have to retrieve a shitload of nukes they stole from the Russians, as well."

"Location? Guard force?" asked Nielson. A mostly retired Colonel, he was Mike's Chief of Staff and a master at logistics, training, and planning operations.

"No idea yet. Pierson suggested that they might have that information. OSOL will be sending us whatever they have." He turned to the Vanners. "Pat, Grez, start combing through everything you've picked up. See if there are any hints about a major op going down. Get with J and Katya, try to get some good HumInt developed as well."

"Hey, Mike, I know that Chechens and nukes are bad mojo, but really, why do we care?" Adams added. "I mean, they know better than to try to fuck with us, and most of their beef is with the Russians. I say we let them hammer on each other for a while."

But Nielson was already shaking his head. "And after they finish with the Russians, how long do you think the Georgians will hold out? If they have nukes, they are the biggest, baddest little country in this corner of the world. And we have to live here."

"No, we can go back to The World any time we want," replied Adams. "I know this is a good gig, but nukes are NOT what I signed up for."

Mike knew better than to take him at face value. "Ass-Boy, shut up. You want a piece of those bastards as much as I do. Besides, if we don't do this op, who knows when they drive a nuke into the Valley?"

Adams nodded. "Thought of that. Just wondering if you had."

Staff Sergeant Oleg Kulcyanov, current Ondah or King of the Spring, leader of one of the Keldara teams, de facto leader of the militia, and a bull of a man, spoke up. "And what do we do?"

"Not sure yet," admitted Mike. "It's going to depend on where they have the nukes, what kind of security they have, how far away they are - lots of things. For now, you work with Adams on training for urban infiltration and combat, in addition to your regular duties. If they manage to get into Moscow, we'll have to be ready." Both men nodded.

Turning to the helicopter pilots, he said, "Kacey, Tamara, I don't know what your role will be in this yet either. I've been promised all the support we need, so permission to bring the Hinds in and out might be all clear. But we can't assume anything, so keep on your flight crews. Seconds might make a difference. We might need you for air support, dust-off, or even transporting the cargo."

Nielson weighed in again. "So, what do we know?"

"We know that the Russians were sending a large number of nuclear warheads to a port on the Black Sea for transport to the US. We know that the convoy was attacked in force, and twenty-five of the warheads were taken. We know that the warheads vary in size and yield; the largest is a five megaton -"

"You're fucking kidding!" burst out Adams.

"Nope. Five. Plus, a three, and a two. The others, we're waiting on Pierson's information."

"We've got to stop this shit! They wouldn't even need to get into the valley with those!"

"What else?" prompted Patrick Vanner. He was more used to these planning sessions than his wife, Greznya, now also a Sergeant, and more likely to add his opinion. Partly, because he had been one of the original trainers for the Mountain Tigers. Partly, because Grez had been born and raised in the Valley. But largely because he could simply out-think most people outside this room on any subject that military intelligence could apply.

"There's not much more I know," replied Mike. "Pierson speculated that the Chechens would use the nukes to first, blackmail Moscow into recognizing their state, and second, wipe us off the map."

Nielson shook his head. "We need that intel before we can do anything intelligent. It'll be orders of magnitude harder to find one or two nukes in Moscow than a whole cache, even if they're in Chechnya proper. Which we don't know they are."

"Agreed. I just wanted to bring you all in on this, get ideas, and start the ball rolling." Faces looked thoughtful. Dr. Arensky chimed in, "And why am I here?"

"You're the smartest man in the Valley, Doctor," answered Mike. "Even though nuclear weapons weren't your specialty, you know more about Russian WMD procedures than anyone else here. You know what we can really expect for help from the Russian agencies that would deal with this kind of thing."

"And to whom do I report my speculations?"

"The Vanners, for now. Any people that you know that you think would be helpful, we want their names and we'll get J in touch."

Now he turned to the final face at the table. "Daria, get with Chatham Aviation. See what they can provide for cargo planes, both long- and short-field capable. If we must, reserve them and flight crews indefinitely. Also, we'll probably need ground transportation; see what we can arrange for vans, trucks, whatever."

Adams added, "What about security here?" It was an issue they had faced before. The Keldara militia was an elite force, equal to any SpecOps Mike had ever encountered, but they were small. There were less than a hundred and twenty, all told, and if they had to go haring off into Chechnya, or Russia proper, they would need every man they had. Which meant stripping the Valley of its mobile defence force. Previously, a company of Rangers had been flown in and dropped from a Ukrainian cargo plane to act as a "home guard."

"Good point. I'll ask Pierson if the same company is available for an extended deploy in the Valley. Last time was way too hurried; we need to really integrate them into our systems." Mike looked around. "What else?"

"This is going to cost." Nielson was still a bean-counter, and always looked after the bottom line.

"That's covered, if we can make the recovery. If we get them all, we're in line for over half a billion."

"Billion?" Adams whistled. "This might just be worthwhile."

"Anything else for now?" A mumbled chorus of no's and nope's was his reply. "Let's be about it, then. Oh, Daria," he added, "hold on a moment."

She stopped, half out of her seat, then settled back as the rest filed out. "Yes, Kildar?"

He sat on the table next to her chair. "Knock off the Kildar crap. What's this about you wanting to leave?"

She agreed, "Yes. I have enjoyed my time here. It is peaceful, this Valley, even with the militia. I have felt safe, and welcome, and needed. But I do not feel I have a future here."

"You've done a great job -"

"It is not the work. I do not feel that I belong, here." Daria Koroleva had been a whore, sold into sexual slavery by her boyfriend, before Mike had rescued her, purely by accident, on a mission in Rozaje. The house she worked had been a snuff house; the girls killed in painful and cruel manners. One of the sadistic pricks had just told her that, having recovered from an illness, she was going into the rotation when Mike and his Keldara had taken out the house, stripped out the computers, and incidentally saved the girls. Daria's skills as an assistant had become evident on the mission, she slipped easily into the role, and when the mission was over, followed them back to the Valley.

"I thought you were happy?"

"I am, usually. Mike, this is not what my life was to be!" Her frustration showed. "I was to be a secretary, or maybe a teacher, not helping to plan assaults on targets, helping get people killed!"

"Do you think you can go back?" he asked gently.

"I don't know."

"And are you ready to face all that?" Mike's sweeping gesture took in the world and all its hazards.

"Probably not," agreed Daria. "I have to try, though. My time here has taught me that much. Besides, I want to see my parents again."

"Won't there be problems? You didn't want to go back, then." It wasn't a question.

"Yes. You told me of an American poet, though, who wrote, 'Home is where, when you go there, they have to take you in.' I am ready to go home. And then, who knows? Maybe you can get me a way to America," she smiled.

"I think I can arrange that," he conceded with a smile of his own. "I'll miss you."

"And I you, Mike." She laid his hand over his. "But I think that you will have enough to distract you, soon." This smile was purely mischievous.

He groaned. "Katrina, you mean. How long have you been working with her?"

"Since before the last harvest festival. She has learned much; enough so that I feel you can survive without my skills."

"You realize, now, that I won't be able to let you go until after we complete this mission?" She nodded. "And that I don't know how long it will take?" Another nod. "Well, then, after the mission is complete, we'll have to give you a big send-off." She rose, and they walked toward the door.

"I'll be in my office for a while. Anything coming up?"

"Anastasia wanted to talk to you."

He could imagine what about. Wincing, Mike said, "Send her up in a few minutes," and headed up the stairs. Enemies, outnumbering him by overwhelming numbers, he had faced. He had discussed and debated with government ministers, secretaries, and even the President. He'd dealt with an ex-wife amiably, even. But the manager of his harem and most frequent bedmate telling him what he had to do about Katrina - that he was NOT looking forward to.

At all.
CHAPTER 5

The Caravanserai

Mike's Office

Anastasia Rakovich, called Stasia by her close friends, was twenty-eight, tall, blonde, and gorgeous. She had been a 'gift' to Mike by an Uzbek sheik, Otryad, who had bought her at age twelve, wedded and divorced her, and made her his harem manager. Despite this lack of formal education, she was as extraordinarily intelligent as she was beautiful. Multilingual, she could hold fluent conversations in a half-dozen languages and manage in who knew how many more. Her thirst for knowledge was unquenchable; since coming to the caravanserai, she had earned Bachelor's in Business Administration and Education, and was working on an MBA. She coordinated the classes for Mike's harem, most of whom couldn't read when they first arrived, and saw to the smooth running of the hareem. And she was also a serious sub, relishing nothing more than her time with Mike in the dungeon he had finally installed for her, far back in the second sub-basement.

"Kildar."

"Stasia." Mike was apprehensive as the silence stretched out. He knew how smoothly his household ran now, despite the complications brought on by a gaggle of teenage girls. Even though he didn't think that anything would come of Katrina's desire - or demand - be become the Kildaran, he was still reluctant to give up the peace and serenity that the harem, under Anastasia's careful stewardship, had brought to his life. He didn't want to give her up, either, if he was being honest with himself.

"You wished to see me?" You can do better than this! he thought. Not for the first time, he touched on the fact that it was truly the sub that had the upper hand in a dominance relationship. "This is about Katrina?" he prompted.

"Yes," she replied seriously.

"I don't really know -" he began, then stopped.

She suddenly smiled, a full, joyous smile, and the tension in the room vanished. "Mike," she laughed, "Of course you don't!" She shook her head.

"I know what you are thinking. I know what happened today, when Katrina came to see you. And I know, too, how to manage this." She laughed again. "That is why you have a manager, and not do it yourself, yes? I have been through this before in Otryad's household. It is not difficult if you can accept your role."

Mike wondered at the sudden shift in the conversation. "My role?" he sputtered. "How do you mean?"

She turned serious. "The Master always has a wife, even with his hareem present. I was Otryad's wife, until I was replaced. Whether for show, or for politics, or power, or even for love, the hareem remained. And the relationship to the hareem remained the same."

"Explain, please."

Settling fully into lecture mode, Anastasia continued. "Let us say that you take Katrina as the Kildaran -"

"Not a sure thing," he interrupted.

"Let us say." He nodded. "Then she will be first in the household, the Mistress, and after the Master, her words are law. She is young, though, and inexperienced. You will still need me, to help manage the hareem. She will need me, to help teach her more of how to care for you. She is smart, though, and is aware of this, that you will need your time and your space too. Think now. There are times when you need Tinata, or Martya, or one of the others. It changes with your mood, and the situation, and the problems of life outside the hareem, does it not?" He nodded again. "So how should it be different after?"

"In America -"

Her head shook vigorously. "But you are not IN America. In truth, I doubt you will ever return there to live. You are the Kildar, now, and have adopted these people, this culture, as your own. You may try to change some aspects of it - no girls have been sent to town since you came, have they?" Before his arrival, it was common for the locals to sell their extra daughters to slavers. It was a cultural holdover from their agricultural past. Children were the economic lifeblood of any farm, but boys were more valuable than girls, partially because boys were generally more physically capable, but also because girls would eventually marry. Marriage, especially the first year, was difficult in such cultures, so a dowry would be provided by the woman's family as a financial cushion for that first year. That dowry, though, was a huge drain on the family providing it. Another custom had evolved, where post-pubescent girls who were not yet betrothed, usually around twelve or thirteen, would be sold off. Not only did it relieve the family of the burden of a dowry, but it could provide up to six months' income. Mike hadn't allowed that to continue. "But the culture, as a whole, you accept. You never sought a hareem, yet you ended up with one because the girls had already been sold and the families wouldn't take them back when you stopped the slavers. So, you adapted, and changed. You didn't know how to handle a hareem, so you found Otryad, and me." She dimpled. "And you have given me wonderful years, when I thought that my future was bleak. I know that you are different and won't get rid of me when you think me too old, like Otryad would have - did. And because you are who you are, the Kildar, and a SEAL, and everything else - you will keep the hareem, and you will keep me, even when you take a wife." She looked positively smug as she finished speaking.

"You still amaze me. I thought you would be upset, jealous. I guess I didn't realize that, just because this is new to me, it wasn't new to you."

She shrugged. "I won't say I won't be jealous. Katrina will take more of your time than any other woman you have had. But you will still need me, from time to time," she twinkled, "And the other girls. You will need to have your own place and time away from her, so that the time you spend with her is as joyous and pleasant as it should be."

"I really hadn't considered that. I wonder if Katrina has?"

Stasia nodded. "It is one of the topics we discussed. She accepts that even if she is first in your heart, your bed will not be hers alone. Although," she added, "I think she has her own ideas how to keep you in her bed more frequently than not."

"I'm sure she does. You have been teaching her, after all." He leaned back. "I do have one question, though."

"Only one, Master?" she teased.

"For now," Mike admitted. "How is it you are so sure this will happen? I really have some problems with all this, and I still have to -"

Stasia's laugh echoed around the room. "You doubt Katrina's will?"

No, he had to admit as his laugh joined hers, he didn't doubt that at all.

CHAPTER 6

Somewhere in Chechnya

Their escape from the searching Russian troops, while tedious, had been clean. Not a single man was lost to hostile fire, though Ibrahim had had two men killed for dropping their end of a crate and jarring the delicate device inside. Now, they were hidden in a network of caves, partially natural, partially man-made that the separatist forces used as a headquarters. They were deep enough to hide any tell-tale traces of radiation, as well.

Ibrahim was meeting with the leader.

"A great success!" exclaimed Giku Inarov, self-proclaimed Emir of the Caucasian Emirate, the former Chechen Republic of Ichkeria. Inarov had been the successor to the last separatist government. Then, after a secret meeting with a Taliban emissary, he had declared the dissolution of the rebel Chechen Republic. His replacement was the Emirate, a fundamentalist Islamic state which was dedicated to conquering all the Caucasian region of Russia for Islam and, just incidentally, himself. But in the year since his conversion, success had been extremely limited. The Chechen people were tired of war, tired of having Russians trample the fields, smash the buildings, and kill anyone they thought threatening.

Little support was forthcoming from the people, and this could be the final effort. Inarov had spent all his resources. Every ruble in the treasury - gone. Every contact in the Russian military and intelligence agencies - burned. Every bit of goodwill left - used. If this failed, the Emirate would never be, and the would-be Emir would likely wish he was never born.

But Allah was watching over their efforts! How else to explain the appearance, months before, of Ibrahim? Ibrahim, who promised to lead Inarov to a great future? Ibrahim, who had brought order and discipline to the fedayeen? Ibrahim, who conceived and executed the bold stroke that brought them the weapons to secure his destiny?

Inarov faced Ibrahim across the table. "And now we strike! Our nuclear fire will rain down upon their cities! The infidel shall burn, and we shall reclaim the Dar al-Harb for Allah!"

"Slowly, Excellency, slowly," cautioned Ibrahim. "We have but one opportunity to land our blow and secure the Emirate. Our plans are not yet complete, our security not yet perfect."

"But now we have these awesome tools of our liberation!" cried Inarov. "Inshallah, they cry to be used!"

"And so they will, Excellency. Soon." Ibrahim bowed his head in a gesture of respect. "There is still much to coordinate. You ask for a simultaneous attack -"

"Of course, it is the only way that we shall bring all of these corrupt unbelievers to their knees! They must feel the pain of their false gods!"

"I agree, of course, yet doing so is far more difficult than isolated incidents. Our people have yet to recognize the brilliance and rightness of your path -"

"They are faithless and weak! I will have them -"

Ibrahim calmly overrode the rant. " - and our numbers are small for what we plan. Although it is Allah's will we succeed, I need time to implement the plan. Most especially, I need time to execute the most dangerous enemies of your rule, the utterly faithless Keldara."

Inarov looked puzzled. "Ah yes, the Keldara. But why should such a small group pose such a threat to us? I have never understood your insistence on their annihilation."

"They are pagans, worshipping false gods, not even the weak Christian Jesus. That apostasy alone condemns them. They also have the support of the President of Georgia, which could stiffen his resolve in face of your requests. Finally, they are led by an agent of the Great Satan, an accursed American, who seems to wield an unseemly amount of power with the American government. If he asks, the Great Satan itself might decide that you were a threat to its interests and bring its military might to bear upon us. While Allah would not let them prevail, it is not yet time to face them in battle. Islam needs you, and your leadership, as we build to bringing all the world to Allah. Risking you, and your place in the reclamation of the Dar al-Harb, would be an offence to Allah."

Inarov, convinced, settled back. "Tell me again, faithful one, where our plans lie in claiming the lands for the Emirate."

Ibrahim relaxed and began ticking off points on his fingers. "First, we must verify that all the weapons are functional. That will take at least a month, especially if any need repair. We have the equipment to do most repairs, and I have acquired " - kidnapped - "sufficient technicians to do the work. The Lesser Satan built sturdy weapons, but they have suffered for lack of maintenance."

"Second, while we are working on the weapons, I will dispatch teams to the former capitals of the Emirate's lands - Yerevan, Baku, Groznyy, Makhachakala, Magas, Nalchik, Stavropol, Vladikavkaz, and Cherkessk. Tbilisi, too, but I shall handle that after the Keldara. They will seek locations suitable for our operations. I will lead a team to Moscow for the same purpose."

"How shall I help?"

Ibrahim had expected this. "Rally the people to our cause. Convince them that your rule will bring the beneficence of Allah to their land and a life of prosperity to their children You are their Emir, yet they do not know you. Use the equipment we will use to transmit to the ungodly to speak with them." Inarov's head nodded at every point.

"Yes! I will exhort our people to rise against the ungodly! Their hope has arrived! Soon the oppression shall fall!"

"Do not reveal too much, Excellency!" cautioned Ibrahim. "The Great Satan's agents are clever, and while we have the blessing of Allah, we cannot expose ourselves too much to Shai'tan's wiles! Platitudes, and kind words, and the text of the Qur'an."

"Agreed, my friend. I am simply eager to be about Allah's work!"

"So you shall, Excellency, as you need to also prepare the statements declaring your Emirate, and the power behind it."

"How will we prove our intent? They shall doubt our words if we cannot supply more."

"Each warhead can be individually identified. We will provide each leader with the numbers for the warhead in their city, and they can get their proof from the Russians."

"Have you set a date yet for the execution of our plan?"

"No, Excellency. I did not wish to presume upon your prerogatives."

"How long will these missions take?"

"With Allah's favor, they shall be completed in four weeks. But Shai'tan works strongly to protect his infidels, and we must allow for that. I also must complete the mission to the Keldara before we can announce our presence, otherwise the Great Satan will only be a phone call away." He seemed to think for a moment. "Six weeks from today."

"Excellent, Ibrahim! You could not have picked a better date! The great festival of Soviet laborers will be the day our labors finally break us free of its decaying husk!"

======================

After Inarov had left, Ibrahim went to his quarters. "I am not to be disturbed," he informed the guard outside the door. The guard didn't question him, and Ibrahim was sure that nobody would come near. Still, he locked the door securely before relaxing.

The plan was proceeding well, reflected Schwenke. It would have shocked his sponsors to learn that Ibrahim al-Jasir, devout Muslim and fervent revolutionist, really didn't care about the Emirate or Chechnya or even Islam. In fact, the whole structure, the whole towering edifice of plans and plots, treachery and deceit, was all so one Kurt Schwenke, former intelligence agent, could have his very personal revenge on an ex-hooker.

Twice, the woman had gotten away from him. Once, she had humiliated him, once, simply interfered with his plans. Not again. It had taken him some time, and quite a few of his remaining resources, to track her down, but he had finally learned that she spent much of her time in a small valley in Georgia, under the protection of a semi-feudal lord called the Kildar and his militia, called the Keldara and Mountain Tigers. It had taken even more time to conceive this operation, using the megalomania of the so-called Emir and his resources. While Kurt had made sure that his scheme was fundamentally sound and would, if all went well, achieve the Emir's goals, the true purpose was to deliver a single weapon to the valley, wipe Katya off the map, and even the score once and for all.

"Soon, bitch, soon. Soon. You won't be able to run. Your little tricks won't help you when the sun comes to visit you. Soon. Soon."

All the guard could hear through the thick door was an indistinct mumble.

CHAPTER 7

The Caravanserai

Mike's Office

After Stasia left, Chief Adams came up.

Mike and the Chief had known each other for almost twenty years. They had met in the infamous BUD/S class 201, when they were two of only five survivors of the course. Burly and bald, the Chief had stayed in the Teams when Mike had gotten out to become an instructor. Unexpectedly reunited in a stinking hellhole under the Syrian desert, Adams was surprised but not shocked to find his old teammate, Ghost, holding off a battalion of Syrian troops with the assistance of a few naked co-eds.

These few, christened Babe, Bambi, and Thumper in the tradition of the Teams, and Amy, an ROTC private, had been kidnapped, drugged, and flown in to be raped, tortured and eventually killed in an effort to break the will of the U.S. The plan had gone awry with Ghost's intervention, which led to the deaths of both bin Laden and the president of Syria, the total destruction of a chemical weapons plant on the site, and the disappearance of one Mike Harmon, aka Ghost, whose name now topped every jihadist's most-wanted list.

Adams had been surprised again several months later when his old friend had called and asked him to come to Georgia - "the country, not the state" - and help him train a militia. Having recently separated from the Teams, and in the process of divorcing wife number five, the Chief had said "Sure," figuring at worst it would be a quick payday. But when he finally got to the Valley of the Keldara several weeks later, training cadre in tow and a crash Berlitz course in Georgian echoing around his mind, he received several shocks in rapid succession.

First, the quality of the equipment. Mike had clearly spent mega dollars in getting the best he could acquire into the country.

Second, the quality of the recruits. Almost uniformly athletic, intelligent, and motivated, the Keldara mastered the basic training with incredible speed. SEAL-style training came next, and the Keldara simply soaked that up as well. Never had the Chief ever seen recruits as capable as these.

Third, the Keldara women. Fricking incredible didn't begin to describe them. Stunning. Gorgeous. Fantastic. Amazing. And, dammit, off-limits unless he was serious about wife number six.

Finally, the beer. Chief Adams thought he knew all the best beers after his global travels in the Teams. But none had a patch on the Keldaran beer. Each Family made their own particular brew, and all of them were worth losing an arm for. But the brew of Mother Lenka - that was worth a couple legs as well. Not the other arm. Had to hold the bottle somehow. Simply the most amazing beer he had ever had.

He was also Mike's field second. Anything that would affect the mission, he took seriously.

"What the fuck are you doing about Katrina?" he opened.

Mike chuckled. "Subtle as always, aren't you?"

"Don't fuck around, Mike. This could be really bad. Or maybe not. It's gonna depend on how you handle it on your end."

"I know," Mike agreed. "And I was as surprised as any of you when she came to me - wait. How do you know about Katrina?"

"It's been pretty obvious to everyone but you, buddy. You've been trying so hard to keep out of her way, you haven't noticed that she's been circling closer and closer for months. She practically lives in the caravanserai, you know, between sessions with Daria, and Anastasia, plus she's taken familiarization and advanced courses on the M4 and MP-5 with me, along with hand-to-hand; basic intel analysis with Grez; and has even worked out as a stand-in crew chief for Kacey on a bunch of recon/training flights." Adams smiled. "Face it, dude, she's got you locked in her sights and there is no way you're getting loose." He decided to leave the red-headed heat-seeker joke for some other time.

"Doesn't look like it, does it?" Mike agreed, grinning back. "I have to admit, as much as I hated the idea at first, it's starting to grow on me. Still..."

"Still," continued Adams, "You worry about her safety, you worry whether or not some raghead, frustrated at not getting you, will take her out. Or take out your children. You worry about how you will react, whether you'll fall apart again or, maybe worse, just go completely black. Right?"

"For a Chief, you're pretty bright."

"Bite me. Look, let's take your objections in turn."

"Okay. Safety here in the Valley."

"That one's bullshit and you know it. Nobody within fifty miles is gonna fuck with the Keldara, not without bringing an army in, and the Georgians won't allow that. Their army might not be any great shakes, but they know they depend on you holding this corner secure and aren't going to let some fuckwad muj army march over the border."

"That takes care of the children issue, too, I guess."

"Yep, at least until they are old enough to get out on their own, if they decide to. Odds are, they won't. Any kids you two have are going to be the Keldaran children of the Kildar, the next best thing to royalty here. A couple might want to leave, get some of your wanderlust, or just be stupid and rebellious. But I know you - you ain't nobody anyone'd want to meet in a dark alley. Bet you're already thinking of all the dirty tricks you can teach them in hand-to-hand."

"What about school? If I have kids, I want them to have an education, not just have a choice between farming, working in a brewery, or being a soldier."

Adams waved it off. "Buddy, you've got more money than you'll spend in a lifetime. If it worries you, set up a school in Alersso, subsidize it so kids can get a real education, and stop worrying. It's not a concern for right now, anyway, is it?" He plowed on. "What else?"

"What if something happens and I lose her, too?" It was almost a whisper. Although Mike had finally recovered from the death of Gretchen, it was still a tender subject. Adams didn't think that anyone else in the Valley would have heard him like this.

"Then we sing her to Valhalla and wipe out the motherfuckers who did it. Accidents might happen, and there's nothing you can do about it. You think for a second that Katrina - Katrina! - would allow you to wrap her up like a china doll? Shit, no!" He leaned closer.

"Let me tell you, she is smart. Maybe smarter than you, because she's spent how long thinking about all of this and doing something about it! She wants you, Mike, God knows why, and she has done everything in her power to get you. You worry that she won't be able to take care of herself? Dude, she pushes me hard in sparring sessions. She is strong, she is fast, and she is motivated. Strikes like a snake and doesn't hold back." The Chief smiled. "She cheats, too."

"You worry about her education? Stasia set her up in the same online college she does, and Katrina's flying through her coursework."

"You worry about this life? She wants it! She knows what you need and is bound and determined to be that person." He paused. "I almost hate to say it, but she's probably the best choice you have here - and, if she has her way, your only choice." A mischievous grin crossed his face. "Hell of a looker, too."

"You know she was the first person I met in the Valley? I was lost, trying to drive the old Mercedes through a snowstorm, running low on gas. Finally, I see this person bent almost double along the road. I asked her for directions, then gave her a ride back to her house. I thought she was an old woman, she was so bent over and wrapped up. But when we were in her house and she unbundled..." He trailed off. "You know, it's almost because of her that I bought the caravanserai,' he mused. "She was always in the back of my mind."

"Back to my point, then. What are you going to do about Katrina?"

"What else is there to do? I'm going to marry her."

"About fucking time, Ass-Boy." The two friends shared a good laugh

"It's going to have to wait a while, though. I don't want to be planning a wedding and a mission at the same time."

"Don't make her wait too long, Mike," warned Adams. "I think you've just about used up her patience. I don't know if you have a choice, anyway."

Mike shrugged. "Twenty-five nukes say she waits a little longer." He frowned. "You know, there's something odd about this mission, though."

Now the Chief frowned too. "How so?"

"Well, the scale of it, for a start. None of the muj have ever hit something this big before. They just don't have the planning or tactical abilities to pull off a hit like this, not deep in someone else's territory. This is just too good, too professional. Hell, it feels like something we could pull off - seriously black."

"Are we sure it's muj?"

"No, and that bothers me too. Pierson is sure that it's Chechens, and I'm sure his intel will support it. But it doesn't have the right feel for it. One nuke, maybe. But a whole convoy?" He shook his head. "Something stinks about this."

"What else could it be?"

"I don't know. What if it's all a ruse? Maybe the Russians hit their own convoy to blame the Chechens." He held up a hand to stop Adams' protests. "I know, unlikely at best. That just proves my point, though. We need more intel, and we need it fast. Maybe J will have some ideas."

"Where is he? And Cottontail? I haven't seen them around in a few days."

"Don't know. He said that he was taking her for training and he would be in contact with us. We ought to be hearing from him soon."

"That dude seriously worries me, Mike. He's like a creepier version of you - totally invisible unless he wants you to see him."

"I know," Mike agreed, "But that's why he's the best at what he does. I'm thinking about getting him to dig up something - anything! - on Kurosawa. Even he's starting to act like he knows what's best for me. Not that that makes him any different than anyone else around here," he growled.

Adams snorted and stood. "Okay. I've got to get some training planned with Nielson. You want to sit in?"

"No, just let me know before you get the teams running through it."

"Right. Oh, yeah, one more thing -" Adams added, his hand on the door sill.

"Yeah?"

"I'm gonna throw your bachelor party."

"Fuuuuuuck."
CHAPTER 8

The Next Day

The Caravanserai

Mike's Office

"Office of Strategic Operations Liaison, Colonel Pierson speaking, how may I help you sir or madam?"

"Go scramble."

"Scrambled. Hold one. Walker!"

Another voice came on the line. "Sir?"

"This is going Ultra. I want you off this line, recorders shut down and the record of this call wiped. Now."

"Sir, yes sir!" There was a distinct click.

"Sorry, Mike. New bells and whistles. Go ahead."

"Bob, we'll take the mission. But we need lots and lots of support or this is going to be a no-go."

"That's what I told NCA, and his exact words were, 'I don't care. I was told he was the best, and you will personally ensure he gets whatever he wants.'"

"Nice to know I'm appreciated," Mike said with a chuckle, then he turned serious. "Ready?"

"Go ahead."

"First, we need better intel. I'm getting a string running, but it'll take time to generate anything useful. Anything you have, we want. Don't worry about any processing or pre-processing - my intel section will want the raw data to see what they can mine from it themselves."

"Done. You want me to coordinate directly, or through you?"

"Directly. I'll have Vanner call you. You could do me a favor."

"Name it."

"He's been tabbed, unofficially, as a CW3. He doesn't care one way or another, won't wear the rank, barely remembers to use it. I want it official, not just something I did at his bachelor party."

"Not gonna ask. Okay... Next?"

"Not so fast. We want all the Russians' take, as well. Overheads. Names. Planning. Everything about this convoy, from soup to nuts, from the officer in charge down to the grunt filling the gas tanks. If there's a leak on their end, we need to find it before I put any Keldara's asses on the line."

"There might be some issues with that -"

"Not if you want this done, there won't be! Bob, if these weapons were anywhere in Russia except Chechnya, in anyone's hands except the Chechens, I would have told you to fuck off and not thought twice."

He continued angrily. "If the damn Russians put any - any - obstacles in my way, if they interfere even once, I swear to you I will walk away and let them deal with their own problems! Don't you tell me there are any issues with getting me the intel I need to pull this one off! You need me to pull this one off. Vlad needs me to pull this one off. What I don't need is to be jerked off. Do we have an understanding?"

"Feel better now?"

Mike smiled ruefully. "Yeah, some."

"What I was going to say was, there may be some issues BUT we will get it to you. Right, intel. What else?"

"Home guard. Someone to watch the store while we're haring after these nukes. Preferably the same company that was here last time; they're familiar with the Keldara and at least some of the terrain. But I want them here soonest. They couldn't take advantage of our infrastructure, didn't have a chance to learn our patrol routes, weren't able to fully integrate with the Keldara. Since we have more lead time, though -"

The last major mission had taken the whole of the Keldara militia to execute. Even though they were going to be fairly close by as the crow flew, the geographic and political terrain had made it impossible to get in and out quickly. This would have left the rest of the Keldara vulnerable to raids from the Chechens, a situation that Mike, as Kildar, couldn't permit.

A company of Rangers had been flown over to take the militia's place, but the timing hadn't permitted a truly comfortable fit. Although no problems had arisen, it was an oversight which Mike was determined to avoid a second time.

"Makes sense. I think it was Bravo Company, 1st/75th, but I'll check that and their availability."

"It's not a deal-breaker if Bravo isn't available, it would just be smoother. They know the territory, they know the Keldara, and they know the rules."

"Understood. Next?"

"Full entry and overflight permission from the Russians for the whole operation area. We can't fuck around with passports and customs and ritual dick-beating when we need to move. I especially don't want to give Putin a single opportunity to fuck us over again. It's not like we were good buddies last time we met. Oh, and off the record?"

"Yeah?" said Pierson warily.

"I told Lasko to miss by at least three inches."

"I really, really didn't need to know that, Mike."

"In any case - if we get good intel, we may have to act quickly; we can't lose time. Also, it's a potential security issue. If we have to be cleared through customs, then some guard will be on the phone to his cousin in Groznyy minutes later."

"Stickier, but it'll get done too. You mentioned overflight?"

"We're trying to line up chartered cargo and passenger flights. We'd be deploying out of Tbilisi, if we move that way. We also have the two Hind-Js, so we'd need support for them - refueling, mostly, but they will be armed. Dragon and Valkyrie will be piloting, if we use the choppers."

Kasey Bathlick and Tamara Wilson, former captains in the Marines, were Mike's pilots. Recruited by OSOL on his behalf, they had been flown to Georgia with a promise of good pay for nothing more than an interview. The situation, and population, hadn't impressed them at first, but they quickly realized that they had landed in with professionals and had signed on. The next day they were in the Czech Republic, taking delivery and getting flight qualified on the Hind-J helicopters Mike had ordered, followed quickly by a three-day flight back to Georgia. One series of hairy-ass sorties had earned them their handles, Dragon and Valkyrie.

"Do you need any extra mechanical support?"

"No, we have a good ground crew that we'll be taking along."

"Anything else?"

Mike was somewhat hesitant but brought up his final point. "This could well end up being too big for us to handle. Don't want to say that, but it's the truth. This has to be the major thrust of the rebels, and with this number of weapons, I expect security to be massive. We might not have the manpower to take it down. The other problem is if they've dispersed the weapons. Again, it's a question of bodies. I only have a hundred twenty, more or less. Concentrated, it's a pretty good force. But if we have to break up into penny packets, we risk being defeated in detail. I won't do that to the Keldara. And if we stay concentrated, and hit one target at a time, we risk losing the other weapons if they get the alarm out."

"What are you asking for, Mike? We can't commit any forces to hostile action on behalf of Russia, not even on Russian soil."

"No, but the Russians can. If I tell you we can't do it, or we need to do multiple, simultaneous strikes, then I need to know that the Russians will commit their own military to this."

"I can't guarantee the quality of their forces."

"If they're smart, they'll send their very best, but that's their problem. If we find the nukes, we'll recover what we can and steer the Russians to the rest. A couple brigades, even of their crappy conscripts, will go a long way toward taking them out of commission."

"Quantity does have a quality all its own."

"Truth, Bob."

"I'll start the wheels turning. What else?"

"That about does it for now. I'll have Vanner call you shortly to set up the initial intel exchange and arrange further dumps."

"Good enough. Out."

Mike set the satellite phone down. They were committed now.

CHAPTER 9

The Valley; The Caravanserai Intel Office; Tbilisi, Georgia; Moscow, Russia

March 10

The tiger silently stalked across the snowy mountainside. She was carrying the carcass of an eighty-pound deer which wasn't quite as quick as it needed to be. She had fed well, first, before starting back to her den.

Others needed food, too.

===========================

"I knew that he was still around!" exclaimed Braon.

"Shut up, you young fool!" snapped Lasko. "And it's a female, idiot."

Lasko Ferani was the oldest member of the Mountain Tigers. Somewhere in his fifties, he was as weathered as the mountains he roamed. But he was also magic with a sniper rifle, and today, he was trying to teach some of the younger Keldara his gifts. Braon and Manos were with him, having shown some potential at Disney. He was spotting for them, and they were supposed to be following his orders, not looking off on their own.

"I see it too," added Manos.

Lasko sighed. "And so did I, but you were supposed to be looking at the target, not searching for a tiger!"

"I wonder if it's the same one Sion said he saw?" mused Braon. Sion Kulcyanov had been Lasko's spotter until he caught a bullet on the Pankisi Gorge mission.

"No, it's not. He's much -" He caught himself abruptly. His little tiger hunt wasn't exactly classified, but it wasn't general knowledge, either. "If you don't pay attention to your target, you can ask him in Valhalla!" Lasko slapped the back of his head. "Now! Target! Right..."

===========================

The intel section was packed. The first of the raw data had come in, and every one of Vanner's girls was in the room, folding, spindling and mutilating the information in hopes of finding a thread to follow. Vanner, Grez, and Stella were in a corner, trying to put a plan together.

"Where do we start?" asked Grez.

"They can't have planned this in a vacuum," replied Vanner. "We look for any hints of increased training activity in the past, oh, let's say three months. I don't think it's worth looking any further back; they wouldn't have been able to hold the trained force together longer than that."

"The usual cues?"

"Yeah. Missing food shipments. Above-normal deliveries. Large, private ammo purchases - probably in Europe, maybe down towards the 'stans. And any trouble spots that have quieted down. The first thing they'd do is wipe out any competition."

"Any ideas where?"

Vanner shook his head. "Not at any of their usual facilities, I think. In the first place, the Russians have shut all of them down pretty hard in the past year. In the second place, even before then, they were too well-known to be used for an op like this. This was professional, not just a raid by some ragheads. It was way too well coordinated. They'd need a single, strong personality leading them."

"Maybe we should be looking at who could have planned this," added Stella. "If this is outside their normal activity, then they must have brought in outside help."

"Probably," agreed Grez, "But not certainly. Just because we didn't know about it doesn't mean they had to import talent."

"No, Stella's right. Sadim was their best military guy, Bukara wasn't bad either, and we both know where they are. I can't think of anyone else in the rebel forces who had Soviet training who hasn't been accounted for, one way or another."

"We need a list of free agents, then, ones who have disappeared in the past what? Six months? Year?"

"I'd lean toward year. Inarov did a pretty good purge of his advisors after his little Taliban house-call, so it has to be later than that."

Grez was thoughtful for a moment. "What about Schwenke?"

Vanner shrugged. "Doesn't seem like his style, but the timing is about right. We'd have to ask J if he's heard anything. Where is he, anyway?"

"He should be back later today, I heard," said Stella. "He and Katya are in Tbilisi for something."

===========================

A man and a woman walked down the street in Tbilisi, across from the American Embassy, carefully observed by the Marines on duty outside the gate. The man was holding the woman's arm, the woman leaning on a walking stick. He was just a little taller, and quite a bit younger-looking. A man and his mother out for a walk, thought one guard.

"Don't look at them," whispered J, his lips barely moving. "Tell me what you see."

"How do I tell you what I see if I cannot look?" demanded Katya.

"Observe, young one," said J. "You can see more than you think you can, but you must know how to look at them without looking at them."

"Yes, o master, but you speak in riddles."

"Think. If we were out for a walk, would you be looking straight ahead? Or would you turn you head and look at me when you talk?"

Katya looked at him, saying, "I would look at you."

"But you know what I look like. Let your eyes wander when you face me and tell me what you see then."

Katya looked forward before replying. "Two guards. They look bored. Security fence doesn't look electrified, but concertina wire on top. Concrete barricades in a zig-zag pattern to stop suicide trucks."

"Good. But you missed the cameras on either side of the gate." J shook his head. "Still, not bad at all." They walked around the corner, out of sight of the embassy. J stood up and dropped the walking stick. "You can let go of my arm now. We need to return to the caravanserai."

"Why?"

J smiled. "They need us, of course."

===========================

Colonel Erkin Chechnik was not having a good day.

One of the ranking officers in a Russian intelligence agency, his area of expertise the former Soviet republics of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia, with additional duties in Chechen-Ingushetia and Ossetia, the Colonel had been considerably less busy the past months. Largely, he reflected, due to the Georgian Mountain Infantry (or whatever Mike "Jenkins" was calling his Keldara retainers) purely kicking the daylights out of the Chechens' best forces.

Of course, it had come at a cost. At the direction of then-President Putin, Chechnik had deliberately withheld information his agency had gathered regarding a large force of Chechens moving into the AO the Keldara had been occupying. It was a cold-blooded decision, weighing the lives of a sometimes-helpful sometimes-ally against burning their sources within the Islamic terrorist networks. The source's value won out, and more Keldara had died as a result.

After the action, it had been made abundantly clear to Chechnik that the only thing stopping the Kildar retaliating was the formerly warm relationship he had had with Chechnik.

Nothing more.

He stayed away from Georgia, and the Keldara, and especially the Kildar, ever since, despite his professional feeling that he was making a mistake, that the Kildar was a source of information and a potential problem-solver worth cultivating.

Considering the latest disaster, though, he wasn't being given a choice.

He rang the Kildar personally.

"Keldara House, Irina speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Please connect me to the Kildar."

"Whom may I say is calling?"

"Colonel Chechnik."

A moment later, a familiar male voice: "Fuck you," followed by a sharp click.

He rang again.

"Keldara house, Irina speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"The Kildar, please."

"The Kildar does not wish to speak with you, Colonel."

"It is urgent that I do so."

"Colonel, he has instructed me not to take your call -"

"I must speak with him!"

" - and I have been further instructed to tell you, quote, It will be a cold day in hell before I talk to you again, you miserable, duplicitous, lying sack of cow shit, unquote. Good day, Colonel." And a click.

Unfortunately, he thought, he couldn't leave it at that. He had been directed by Prime Minister Putin himself, not a half-hour ago, to "make it right" between himself and the Kildar.

It had almost been worth seeing the look on the Prime Minister's face and hear him choking on his own words, ordering him to "Seek the help of the bastard Ami in Georgia and his lackeys. If nothing else, they'll do it for money." Which showed what Putin didn't know about the personality of the Kildar.

This hijacking of nuclear arms, although it was the dammed Army's fault, was being laid at his desk, and if he had any hope of continuing his career, he had better fix it. Since the Americans had already contracted to the Kildar, that meant he had to deal with the Kildar, too, or risk going behind his back.

Again.

Which would not lead to a long and happy life - Chechnik knew that Mike had a nuke in his caravanserai, a nuke that the Russians had given him, a nuke that was supposed to have gone to the US as part of the cover story from the last op. Chechnik also knew that Mike would have no hesitation about using that nuke on him, if he ever got in his way again.

So.

Option A, do nothing, and plan to spend the rest of his life "counting snowflakes in Siberia," as Vlad had so delicately put it.

Option B, try to recover the nukes on his own, risk failure and, if he was lucky, Siberia, or if he was unlucky, being blown to plasma; or

Option C, try to reason with Mike.

He sighed.

"Yevgeni, get me on a flight to Tbilisi, as soon as possible, and arrange for a car and driver," he said to his aide. "Make sure it's a local driver, and a good car. I'll be going deep into the country, and the roads there I wouldn't wish on a Chechen."

"Yes, Colonel. How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know. If I'm fortunate, I'll come back alive." There were rumors, from some very odd shipping manifests, of a torture room somewhere in the basement.

No matter. He had to go. As he dropped the official orders in the shredded, he imagined Putin's tie caught instead. The image brought a bit of warmth to him.

If only for a short while.
CHAPTER 10

The Valley; The Caravanserai

March 12

"Keldara Base, this is Sawn Eight." Sawn Eight was Grigor Devlich, on post at the checkpoint on the main road into Alersso. It was one of the most distant controlled entries to the Valley, and usually the least interesting. A few trucks making deliveries, townspeople going back and forth, a couple refugees - though they were much more infrequent, nowadays - and occasionally Captain Tyurin on an honest-to-God patrol. When he couldn't send some of his Keldara auxiliaries, that is.

Today, though... Today was interesting.

"Keldara Base, go Sawn Eight."

"Colonel Erkin Chechnik of Russian Intelligence just passed the checkpoint. Blue Mercedes sedan, being driven by a sergeant , probably Georgian Army. They are en route to the caravanserai to meet with the Kildar, over."

"Sawn Eight, be advised, Colonel Chechnik is not on the Kildar's approved list for visitors."

"I told him that, Gana! He insisted on passing, and since he isn't on the other list..." The "other" list was Mike's shoot-on-sight list: any Chechen, anyone carrying sex slaves, and Vladimir Putin.

Gana sighed, then keyed the mike. "Understood, Sawn Eight. Will advise the Kildar. Keldara Base, out."

=============================

Colonel Chechnik strode into the foyer of the caravanserai. He put on a brave front, but he half-expected to see a line of Keldara, weapons drawn. Instead, he was greeted by Anastasia. Not smiling, perhaps, but a beautiful woman beat loaded weapons any day, he reflected. Unless - he looked around. No. That other blonde - the one who'd been 'augmented' - was absent. Thank the Christ.

"The Kildar is in the conference room," she said, and led him down the hall. She knocked once on the door and opened it for him.

"Colonel Chechnik." The greeting, bare as it was, came from a man Erkin didn't recognize, seated at the end of the conference table closest to the door. "Chief Warrant Officer Patrick Vanner, Keldara Intelligence." He didn't offer to shake hands. Nor did he stand up.

"Mr. Vanner. I had hoped to meet with the Kildar...?"

"The Kildar does not want to meet with you, Colonel. In fact, there was an opinion, strongly expressed, that you be, ah, disposed of. I think that the Chief and Colonel Nielson talked him out of it."

Chechnik nodded. "I knew that I would not be exactly welcome."

"And I know why. My friends were out there, too." The tone was decidedly chilly, but Vanner very obviously shook it off. "However. You have information that we need. You are a potentially useful conduit between my organization and the Russian agencies that report to you. As such, the Kildar has decided - with, as I said, quite a bit of argument - that killing you would be detrimental at this time." He gestured. "Please. Sit. And tell us what we are getting into, every detail you can manage."

Chechnik sat. "I cannot sufficiently express the regret I feel over the decision to withhold information from you, Mr. -"

"Chief Warrant Officer, Colonel. You want something from us, you can address me as Chief."

"Chief, then. I am sorry, sorrier than you know. It was never my intent -"

"Colonel, save your breath. You don't need to apologize to me; it wasn't someone I love who was killed. The person you need to talk to, wouldn't listen to you anyway. Let's quit the bullshit and get down to it."

Chechnik nodded. "Very well, Chief. You know that this convoy was ambushed by -"

=============================

" - a large force of Chechens, yes?"

Mike leaned forward and silenced the speaker. "We'll get it on tape. I really don't feel like listening to him right now."

"You don't think that Vanner's laying it on a little thick, do you?" asked Adams. They were sitting in another conference room, one floor down in the more-secure first basement.

"Naah. It's good to see him sweat a bit." Mike shrugged. "I was pissed at him for a long time. Honestly, if he had come here even six months ago? He'd have been sorry, sore, and in an unmarked grave. Now, though? Not so much." He raised a hand to stall the comments. "I still don't want to see him. I don't even want him here. We do need him, though, or at least the information he can provide. If nothing else, maybe he can keep that prick Putin out of my hair this time."

Nielson spoke up. "On that note - Mike, I think you need to make an appearance. Put the fear of the Kildar in him."

Mike stood. "No. The fear of the Keldara."

=============================

The door to the conference room opened with a slam.

"Stay in your fucking seat, Chechnik!" Mike strode across to the opposite side of the table. "And don't open your lying mouth! You will listen, and you will comply, or you will die here, now. Understand?"

Chechnik nodded.

"First smart thing you've done, Colonel. Didn't I tell you not to come here? Didn't I tell you I didn't want to see you?"

He nodded again.

"It's not me you have to worry about. You know that, don't you? Oh, I could make your life miserable for what little time you had left. And I would enjoy it," he snarled. "You - you! - are responsible for the death of a woman I cared for, very much." He lowered his voice slightly.

"You knew that without that information, we would be hammered. You knew. But you followed your orders, didn't you, Colonel? You just followed orders." He leaned forward. "Just like a goddamn Nazi storm trooper, you followed your fucking orders!" he shouted, then sat back.

"It's not me you have to worry about, Erkin." Mike's voice was soft and full of menace. "You want to know why? It's because, like you, I was a soldier. I understand that sometimes you do have to simply follow orders, even if you disagree with them. I'll even give you credit, that you did disagree."

Now he stood, and walked towards Chechnik, still speaking. "But the Keldara, now, they're warriors." His voice got softer, quieter, and more threatening with each step "They believe in honor and doing the right thing. They can't understand why you didn't. They don't understand why you couldn't. It was their brothers and sisters out there, Chechnik, wives and husbands. Sons and daughters. Yes, it was war. Soldiers die. But more of them died than had to had you done the right thing. In the mind of the Keldara, you owe them a debt of blood." Mike's face was inches away from Chechnik's now. "Frankly, I'm surprised you lived to get here." He stood again.

"Every piece of information you get, we get. I don't care if you burn your source. I don't give a damn if Vlad gets annoyed. And I don't give a fuck if you end up in some nowhere town in Yakutsk! If I get even a hint that you're holding out on me, I turn the Keldara loose with my blessings and the best intel I can give them." He leaned back down again. "And if I do that, you had better pray the men get you before the women."

Mike turned away. "Vanner, when you finish with this piece of shit, make sure he gets safely out of the Valley. Then put his sorry ass on the other list." He walked out.

"Other list?" Chechnik said after a moment.

"Shoot on sight," replied Vanner, with a smug, Cheshire cat smile. "Now. Where were we?"
CHAPTER 11

Mike's Office

March 20

He couldn't dodge this meeting any longer.

In the days since the double whammy of Katrina and the mission, Mike had managed to plead "planning and training" every time the Elders wanted a meet. And it wasn't all bullshit. Team training had required some of his expertise, though maybe not as much as he had given.

Intel gathering and sorting, well, that was Vanner's specialty, and he was good at it. Better if he didn't have the Kildar looking over his shoulder, but Mike knew that Katrina wouldn't bother him in the intel room. The planning session with J and Katya had been interesting, though.

"So, we have no idea exactly where these things are, who snatched them, how they're guarded, or what they plan to do with them."

"Yes."

"And you want us to find out."

"Yes."

J shrugged. "Suits." Katya wasn't quite so calm.

"Again? I am to play the whore again? You want me to get beaten some more? Maybe killed this time? I am sick of it, Kildar, and I -"

"Katya." The warning in J's tone was obvious. "You listen, but you do not hear. Did he say anything about how we are to infiltrate?"

She paused. "No."

"Then why would you presume to be a whore? You have more skills than that, now. Is that the only role you feel you can play? Or do you feel that it is the best role for you?"

"No, it isn't, and I am not scared! Angry? Yes! Scared? No!" She actually sounded abashed. Well, slightly. As much as anyone would ever see.

"Stop reacting and start thinking. We have been given a mission. How we execute it is up to us - correct, Kildar?" he added, turning to Mike.

"Yep. I don't care what you have to do to get inside, or how you get the information, as long as it gets back here in time and you can get out. This isn't a suicide mission, no matter how it may look. Make a plan and tell me what you need for support. You will get it."

"And my price this time?" demanded Katya, with some of her usual fire.

"A hundred thousand euros, minimum. Bonuses based on usefulness and timeliness of information."

She shook her head. "More."

"Two hundred k then."

"No, not money."

"Then what?"

"I want to be able to leave."

Now Mike shook his head. "Not with all your 'upgrades,' you can't. Bad enough you have over a year training with J; I can't just let you walk away because you're too dangerous. Either you'll let your sociopath side go - and don't try to hide it, we both know you have one - getting revenge on everyone you think ever wronged you, or you'll get caught doing it and burn us to try to buy your freedom."

J added, "He is correct. You have learned much, but you have not yet completely learned control of your demons. There is too much of the hurt child you once were, the child who wants nothing more than to hit back, to let you out on your own."

"I can control it! I do!" she insisted.

"Are you disagreeing with me?" J asked quietly. "I might add that, even if he should acquiesce to your demand, I will no longer be training you. I will be remaining here."

Katya thought furiously for a few seconds. Her agreement with J, though highly informal, required her honesty and complete attention. He had promised to teach her all he knew as long as she listened. If she ever stopped listening, he stopped teaching. "No. I will stay."

"This isn't a prison, Cottontail," said Mike. "I'm sure that, if I had to, I could arrange for the removal of your toys. It probably wouldn't be pleasant, but it could be done. I think. But the other issue remains. You know too much about the Keldara, and about me." He shrugged. "You are a cold bitch, Cottontail. I respect that, actually, and understand it. It means, though, that you're not going anywhere on a permanent basis. Not now, not yet. Maybe not ever. And there's not much I can do about that."

A few days later, J and Katya had left for Chechnya. A small team of Keldara followed, to ensure extraction and, though Mike didn't express it, to call in the heavies, including the Dragon, if needed.

He had stolen a couple more days by the simple expedient of traveling to Tbilisi to meet with General Umarov and Ambassador Wilson. It was legitimate, sure; he did have to arrange a few details. Of course, he could have handled it on the phone. Hell, he could have had Valkyrie fly him there and back the same day, instead of shaking his body on the roads between. Still, it got him out of the Valley, away from Katrina, away from the Elders.

Another day he spent with Yosif's team, practicing underwater demo in his "training" lake. Yosif had recovered remarkably from his exposure to VX in Florida; in truth, the strenuous training had probably saved his life and his motor skills, but his determination and Keldara background had done as much to ensure his recovery. Of course, the mutation of having four kidneys - common among the Keldara, but worth noting in the States, at least until the Corpsman was reminded of the black nature of the op - helped filter it out as well.

Mike didn't know if any water skills would be needed on this op, but he wanted to err on the side of caution. Admittedly, the lake was barely above freezing, under a still-thick layer of ice, but that's what the Bare CD4 and CT100 dry suits and polar under lining were for. The ice was in much, much smaller chunks now.

It was simply amazing what you could do with non-lubricated, reservoir-tipped condoms and Semtex. So much so all thoughts of marriage had completely slipped his mind.

Now, though, he had run out of excuses, and the Elders had all come up the caravanserai. Led by Father Kulcyanov, they filed into his office as he rose in respect. Not surprisingly, Mother Lenka and Mother Devlich followed.

"Kildar, I greet you in the name of the All-Father," wheezed Father Kulcyanov formally. It felt like the beginning of a ritual, so Mike replied in kind.

"I greet you, Father Kulcyanov, and the other Elders of the Keldara. Please, sit." Mike waited while they settled, then sat himself. "How may the Kildar serve the Elders?"

"We have come in the name of custom and your place in the Keldara, Kildar."

"What about my place?"

"You are the Kildar. You are the leader of the Keldara, in peace and in battle. You have proven yourself as a true Kildar, valiant, honoring your word, showing your devotion to your people in your actions and your beliefs. You have allowed the Keldara to reveal our true selves, to enjoy freedom to honor the Father of All. You have led our warriors to victory in battle against unspeakable odds. You have done all that a Kildar should, and ever has, done for the Keldara." He paused for breath, and Mike waited.

"Now it is time for you to bond fully with the Keldara. Now it is time for you to fully assume your place as leader of the Keldara. Now it is time for you to take a woman of the Keldara to be your Kildaran."

"Father Kulcyanov, I have reasons -"

"It is the will of the Elders that this be done, Kildar. In many things we have bent to your will. We have accepted your changes as the word of the Kildar, and the changes have been good. In this, though, you will bow to our will." The old, old voice was surprisingly strong.

Two years ago, when Mike had first come to the Valley, he had faced down the Elders. A young Keldara woman, Irina, had displayed signs of acute appendicitis, so Mike had piled her, her friend Lydia, and Genadi into his car for a perilous drive into Tbilisi.

The appendix had been removed, Irina had been saved, but the repercussions had been... interesting. Irina and Lydia, being unmarried, were not supposed to be alone with males not of their family, or they would be considered unclean, spoiled, not eligible to be married. Lydia was betrothed to Oleg, one of Mike's then-nascent team leaders.

Under the customs of the Keldara, that betrothal would be broken, and both women possibly "sent to town." The Keldara, too, despised debt, and were aghast at being in debt for the medical expenses, a debt that Mike never even considered. In a tense meeting, Mike made his attitude known, and used his position as Kildar to make it stick. Time, however, works its changes on everyone, and not only didn't Mike think he could face down the Elders on this issue - he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to.

"What is the role of the Kildaran, Father?" he asked instead.

The Elders visibly relaxed. Father Makanee almost smiled. "The Kildaran is the primary woman in your household. She does not have to be wedded -"

"If I do this, she will be wedded," Mike interrupted.

" - but she is the Lady of the house. She is Mother to any children you have, of her body or of others'. Only children of her body, however, can ever become Kildar in their turn, should they so choose."

Now Mother Lenka spoke. "She is also to be the Priestess to the Goddess, Mother of us all. She should also be able to make beer," she added with a cackle. Mother Lenka's brew was legendary in the Valley. Any tension remaining dissipated.

"It has been long years since we had a Kildar worthy of a Kildaran," said Father Mahona. "The last was a Prussian, appointed by the Tsars, but he died before his Kildaran produced any heirs."

"All this is to ensure a Kildar?" Mike asked.

"Not at all," spoke Makanee. "It is the only way, though, that a Kildar can come from the Keldara."

Mike nodded. "And the Kildaran is to be Katrina."

Father Devlich answered. He had been the Elder most resistant to Mike's changes, but even he had mellowed somewhat "As if it could be anyone else." He snorted. "Ever since you came here! The Kildar this, the Kildaran that - it's all I have heard for two years!" He smiled, grimly. "She can be your problem now, Kildar!" A general chuckle arose.

Father Kulcyanov, though, confirmed it. "Katrina Devlich is to be the Kildaran, yes. This is our judgment, as Elders of the Keldara, and our final words on the matter. "

Mike's years as a SEAL had taught him how to fight. It had also taught him when a fight wasn't worth fighting. "Okay. What do I need to do?"

Father Kulcyanov replied now. "You have little to do, Kildar. The potential Kildaran has been weighed and measured by the Elders and has been found worthy. You have accepted her. If you were not planning on marriage, then there would be a brief ceremony at your convenience, and she would become your Kildaran."

Mike shook his head again. "If I'm gonna do this, I'll do it right. She'll be my wife, as well as the Kildaran."

"Then there is some planning to do before we formally betroth her. After the betrothal, customs require you wait for one cycle of the moon before wedding -"

" - for the Rite of Kardane. I'm not doing that any longer, as you know. Can we skip the waiting?"

"Are you so eager to breach her, Kildar?" Mother Lenka spoke. "Not that Katrina would mind!"

"No, Kildar," resumed Father Kulcyanov over the subdued laughter. "Although the Rite was the purpose of the custom, there are also many details that must be arranged before the wedding. Katrina must be confirmed as Mother Lenka's heir, which will require some time in itself, among other duties."

"Father, no disrespect, but you are aware that we are planning a mission? One that could require I leave at almost any time?"

"Yes, Kildar, of course we are aware. Once the waiting period is passed, the wedding can take place at any time. It simply cannot occur earlier."

"That could put it during the Festival of Balar, if I'm looking at this right."

The old man nodded. "That would be entirely appropriate, Kildar, to end the Festival with the wedding of the Kildaran."

"That's when we'll plan it, then. One thing, though: you said that Katrina would be Mother to all children of mine, even not of her body. What about the children of the Rite? There are a good number out there, you know."

Mother Lenka took this one. "Even though they are children of your body, Kildar, in the eyes of the Keldara, they are the children of their parents. Stella's son, Sawn, is a child of your body. But he is the son of Vil."

Mike shrugged, again. "If you say so."

The Elders rose. "We will call on you in a few days, Kildar, for your betrothal."

"I look forward to it." As they began to leave, a final question occurred to Mike. "Father Kulcyanov?"

He turned before the door. "Yes, Kildar?"

"What family was the last Kildaran from?"

"Why, Devlich, of course," he said with a twinkle.
CHAPTER 12

Groznyy, Chechnya, Russia; The Cave; Mike's Office

March 21

Izz al Din Kassab had been in the service of the Chechen rebellion for over fifteen years. His uncle Abdul-Sami was a hidden mullah under the Soviets and had taught him the Qur'an secretly. When the Soviet empire fell, and the Chechens had first dreamt of freedom, Abdul-Sami was one of the first to enlist. He was also one of the first to die at the hands of Russian troops. Izz al Din wept for a day when he heard, then sought out a resistance cell. Even though he was only twelve, his desire to avenge his uncle shone through, and he was accepted.

Over the years, he had battled against Russian control at every turn. Gravely injured in three separate actions, he nevertheless returned again and again to the heat of battle. He survived when others died and rose up in the leadership of the resistance. Nothing, however, stopped the gradual disaffection of the majority of the Chechen people. Recruiting, funding, planning, all became vastly more difficult, almost impossible. Chechens were actually turning on his comrades, selling them to the Allah-cursed Russians for nothing more than a little quiet! Surely the fools realized that there could be no real peace with the Russians still as their overlords?

Apparently not.

It was Kassab who had found the caves that they were now forced to use, near the northern border of Chechnya. It was Kassab who organized and, to be honest, terrorized the locals into providing food and other supplies. It was Kassab, too, through whom Ibrahim had made his first cautious contacts months ago. Now it was Kassab who was granted the first opportunity to enact the final blow. He had been dispatched with a small group of mujahideen to Groznyy, to find a suitable hide and prepare the site for delivery of the weapon. But there were problems.

"Salah, you son of a diseased camel! No phones!"

Salah, a young and not-too-bright recruit, hung his head. "Izz al Din, I had to call my mother. She made me swear to Allah that I would call her every week!"

Kassab shook his head. "And so, you pull out a cell phone and call! You told her where you were! You told her what we are doing! Miserable, stupid, worthless oaf!"

"But Izz -"

"But nothing! Silence!" Kassab waited for a few moments. "Give me the phone." Salah handed it to Kassab, who promptly dashed it to the ground and crushed it with the butt of his AK. "Now. You will be on sentry duty tonight, and every night, until we complete our mission here. You will also pray every day to Allah that your mother knows how to keep her mouth shut, unlike her son. Now get out of my sight." Salah slunk away.

Kassab sighed. Maybe it would get easier.

Murphy wasn't done with them yet, though.

The brief call was captured by an orbiting satellite, recently retasked for this mission. At the programmed time, the bird transmitted back to its controllers. The routine data dump sent the innocuous-sounding call to a bank of computers deep in the desert sands, where another program was triggered to search for certain words and phrases.

Enough were found to launch yet another program, which backtracked the call and nailed down both the point of origin and the receiver. Finally, a fourth program put it all together and added it to the queue of information already gathered.

Unfortunately, that's where Murphy stepped in again.

To save bandwidth, it had been decided to hold all possible leads until a critical threshold was reached. But the anonymous DOD programmer had decided the threshold should be measured in megabytes, which he could wrap his mind around, not keywords and trigger phrases. So, the data sat, hotter than the cores of the stolen nukes, as the bytes trickled in.

Somewhere, Murphy smiled.

=============================

Anisa Kulcyanov was terribly excited. Normally one of the coolest of the intel specialists, she had proven herself under fire in Romania, and as a crew chief for Captain Wilson's Valkyrie. Little rattled her. This didn't rattle her either.

"Grez? We have our first solid hit. Can you confirm?"

Greznya came over to Anisa's station. It was one of four receiving a feed from the NSA's Echelon program. Echelon was a top-secret voice analysis and recognition program, designed to eavesdrop on electronic communication worldwide.

Pat Vanner, who had been in the NSA before resigning, knew of it and knew it was one of the few tools they could use quickly. A few phone calls from Mike to OSOL, and then to the SecDef, had finally convinced the NSA to allow Vanner's intel girls access. "One time only," they were quick to add. The wheels of government turn slowly, even under the most urgent circumstances, and the downloads had just begun.

In fact, days had passed since a homesick muj had called his mother to reassure her that yes, he was okay, and yes, he was eating his meals.

"What is it, Anisa?"

"A cell phone call from Groznyy to Kvanada. A muj calling his mother."

"And?"

"And, he said that Kassab's team was in place and awaiting their, I quote, 'weapon of Allah's Fire.'"

"A 'weapon of Allah's Fire' sounds like a nuclear weapon to me."

"To me as well."

"Can we lock it down any more precisely than Groznyy? And who is Kassab?"

"Kseniya is working that."

At her name, Kseniya turned. "Possibly Izz al Din Kassab, a known fighter in the Chechen rebel forces. Last known position was with Giku Inarov, the current rebel leader. Location, though, is unknown."

"Maybe not any longer. Okay." The English word had crossed into Keldara just as quickly as any other language. "Get the best fix we can on the location of that call. Priority on any other transmissions or activity in and around Groznyy. Irina, see what the Russians have available for HUMINT in that area. And Kseniya, get a full dossier on Kassab. The Kildar needs this information."

She grinned. "Good job! Now, get back to work - there's lots more data to massage. We might just get lucky again."

=============================

"Okay, Grez, what do you have?" Mike asked.

This wasn't the first time Greznya had briefed Mike. Her status as Vanner's wife had little to do with it. She had proven time and again that she was a highly capable intelligence analyst in her own right; marriage had simply solidified her status in the eyes of the Keldara. So marching upstairs and reporting didn't faze her at all.

"Izz al Din Kassab and a team of fighters have rented a small tenement building near the center of Groznyy. They are apparently an advance group, waiting for others to deliver one of the nuclear weapons."

"Timetable?"

"It is not clear, Kildar. Within the next few weeks, certainly."

"And who is Kassab?"

"A long-known fighter in the Chechen resistance. He has been associated with Giku Inarov, one faction's leader, for some years now. Full information is in this file." She laid a folder on the desk.

"Would Kassab have been able to pull off this assault on his own?"

"Unlikely. He has never operated independently. Nor has he shown any indication of the planning abilities required for an exercise of that magnitude. Background, wounded many times in service to one leader or another. Keeps coming back; he's a true believer. Knows his role. Never had any official attention, so he's kept his head down."

"How did he let a slip like this happen then?"

"Murphy?"

Mike grunted. "Probably. Okay. He's been a good soldier, following someone else's plan, then."

"Exactly our conclusion, Kildar."

"What do we know about Inarov?"

"Born in 1964. Educated in Groznyy as a construction engineer. Fought with rebels in both first and second Chechen wars. Served as head of Chechen Security Council between wars but removed in disgrace."

"Why?"

"He was accused of taking hostages while acting in the position."

"He couldn't give up the habit even to go legit. What else?"

"Selected as Vice-President of separatist government in 2006, rose to Presidency in 2007. Declared the Caucasus Emirate in October of that year, following a series of visits by Taliban and al-Qaeda representatives."

"Caucasus Emirate?"

Greznya looked up from her notes. "Apparently, he is attempting to unify all of the former Soviet and current Russian republics in the north Caucasus into an Islamic state. This definitely includes Georgia."

"Oh, joy. Why haven't we heard of this joker earlier?"

"According to the CIA, there is little support for Inarov outside a very limited base in the southern mountains. His greatest successes have come outside Chechnya; inside Chechnya, the current government lists him as their number one target."

"Great. We have a guy living practically next door who wants to take over the whole area, who knows how to operate outside his own area, who now has nuclear weapons and has nothing to lose."

Greznya grimaced. "Essentially correct, but we're still uneasy."

"How so?"

"Inarov has had success against the Russians in both wars. They were all on a much smaller scale, however. The few followers he still has are from the same mold - small unit commanders, capable, but not imaginative. From reading the Russians' dossier, I think, and both Patrick and Stella agree, that the conception and planning of this action is beyond him."

"Someone is doing his thinking for him," Mike agreed. "What we do about that, though..." He trailed off, then picked up the phone. "Daria. Combat staff meeting, thirty minutes." Hanging up, he said to Greznya, "Do we have any idea where J and Cottontail are?"

"We're in contact with them daily. They have skirted the Pankisi and are near to entering Dagestan."

"Contact them now. Have them head to Groznyy. We need eyes on the ground."

=============================

"At least we have a starting point," opined Adams.

The briefing hadn't taken long. Mike's initial shock at seeing Katrina - "This is part of her training, Kildar," explained Daria - had quickly evaporated as he listened, again, to Greznya's information.

"What we do from here, that's the question," added Nielson. "We can't commit fully on the basis of this report alone."

"Of course not," said Mike. "Options? Oleg?"

"Attack. The more we send to the Cold Lands, the happier the All-Father will be."

Mike disagreed, but before he could speak, Greznya spoke up. "Foolish man! This is our only link to the source - if we kill them all, where do we go next?"

"We still need to take them down," said Adams. "Can't have them setting there."

"Until we can trace them back to Inarov, if he is the one behind this, then we have to."

Vanner spoke. "We need better intel. J and Katya will get there in a couple days, but what will we miss?" He shook his head. "I think we need to tap into Chechnik's sources."

"Do it," growled Mike, "Just don't expect me to talk to him." He turned to Adams. "Oleg has a good point, though. We're going to have to plan to take it down. I want you to take Pavel and his team to Groznyy too. Take someone from Intel -"

"Anisa," said Vanner.

"Fine, Anisa. And make sure you have Cottontail's black box. Daria, they're going to need transportation and a base -"

"Rent or buy two vans in Tbilisi and find a warehouse near Groznyy."

He had to grin. "Damn, it'll suck when you leave. I hope you're taking notes, Katrina!"

"Be assured, I am," she replied, grinning back.

"Knock it off, you two," said Adams. "How soon do you want us there?"

"Give J some time to get there and develop some sources. Say, four or five days?"

Adams nodded. "Done. Full load?"

"Urban package. I'll call General Umarov and see if we can't borrow a couple choppers to get you to Tbilisi quicker." He turned to Nielson. "Any word yet on the Rangers?"

"I expect them day after tomorrow."

"They dropping in again?" On the previous deployment, the Ranger company had parachuted in from a Ukrainian An-120 transport.

"Yep. Gotta keep those jump wings."

"Oorah. Will we have sufficient bunk space?"

"Barely. The three emergency shelters you had Meller build last summer are vacant." A late-winter avalanche had come close to burying one of the Keldara compounds. Mike realized that if anything happened to their homes, they would have nowhere else to stay. In a Georgian winter, that would be quickly fatal.

He'd had three long buildings constructed for use as emergency shelters. They also served as large meeting halls and gathering places for the whole community. The villagers from Alersso had rented them on occasion for weddings and other celebrations. They'd also been used during the worst of the influx of refugees as temporary housing. "I don't think the Keldara have any plans for them in the near future."

"Good enough. Same company, right?"

"First of the seventy-fifth. Guerrin is still commanding."

"That'll make it easier." He looked around. "I think that does it." People stood to leave. Mike noticed Katrina make her way through to his side. "Yes?" he asked.

She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him quickly. "See? I can be the Kildaran you need."

"Out!" he said, smiling.

"Yes, Kildar," she replied, and walked - no, swayed - out.

AARGH!
CHAPTER 13

Airborne over Europe; The Valley

March 27

Captain Jean-Paul Guerrin, known to his friends as "J.P.", was psyched.

When his commander informed him that his company was going to be deployed overseas - again - he hadn't been. In fact, he was pretty pissed. Not only was he on short time, but Bravo Company had been overseas fifteen of the past twenty months. Some time was in Germany, which on the whole was pretty good. A very little bit of time was in Georgia, which could have sucked, but turned out very good. And most of it was in one sandbox or the other, which still sucked. Home had been good. Home for mustering out was going to be better. He was far into short time, with less than two months to go. To be told that he had one more deployment to make - shit.

Then he was told that it was back to Georgia. That changed everything in a hurry.

Bravo had been deployed a couple years earlier. The mission, he was told, was to train with a mountain militia called the Mountain Tigers. While Rangers were one of the best spec ops forces on the planet, it never hurt to get more practice in unusual terrain, and the mountains of eastern Georgia, while not the Rockies in stature, would provide ample challenge to even a veteran company. It got better, though, since the company was going to jump in. Normally, maybe jumping into an unknown LZ would not be high on anyone's list of things to do, but they needed to jump to get recertified - and stay on jump status, and therefore on jump pay. So that was good.

Getting to Georgia to jump had been - interesting. First, military airlift to the Ukraine, where a Ukrainian An-120 had picked them up and delivered them to the LZ. Then J.P. landed in a tree, to get pulled out by a fucking Hind, and set down in the middle of... He still didn't know quite how to think of it. It ended up that Second platoon was bunking in the quarters of the local warlord's harem, of all things. This warlord, called Kildar, turned out to be a former SEAL, and had some serious pull in Washington, because J.P. got briefed on what their real mission was.

Seems that the militia was out of town, on a black op. Seriously black. Black as in, "This never happened, now we have to kill you," black. Their real mission was to cover their back and hold the valley from being overrun by Chechens. They weren't alone. Even though the militia had left for points east, the women were still around. They weren't your typical peasant women, either. Besides running a very credible intelligence outfit, a good number were trained as mortarmen - women - whatever.

This did cause a little problem, though, as some of his men had to be assigned to the mortar teams in support, which meant that they had to work with the women. Closely. Not a problem if they were typical peasants, but they really weren't typical. J.P. didn't know how they did it, but every one of these women could have posed for a swimsuit issue. And it didn't help that they were all young.

What did help was the fact that most of them were either married or engaged to the men his Rangers were there to cover for. That, plus promises of immediate and dire punishment if there were even any hints of an issue, kept everyone in line.

Then there was the third, truly black mission. If the shit really hit the fan, and the Keldara came barrel-assing back through the pass with Chechens on their heels, then his company was to slam the door shut on the Chechens with all the force they could bear. The Keldara were going to have a home to come back to, period fucking dot.

The situation had never quite gotten that bad. They discovered Chechen-manned bunkers in the pass leading to the valley, but one of the Hinds had completely flattened them. The force chasing the Keldara had been nearly wiped out despite outnumbering the militia by roughly forty-to-one. And the blocking force sent ahead to bottle the militia up had met a grisly end at the hands and knives and axes of the Keldara women. All that was left for the company to do was help carry the wounded and dead back home.

They'd been pulled out shortly after. Since, their deployments had been routine, even boring in comparison. One final deployment to Georgia, though - that made it much more agreeable.

They had been given a choice between jumping in again or taking a more conventional approach; J.P. had chosen to jump. He was regretting that somewhat now. Twenty hours. That's how long it had taken from takeoff from Lawson aboard the C-5 until now, just before time to jump. Three hours' sleep, he estimated. And the jet lag was going to suck. Still, they were almost there.

===============================

"I hope they don't land in any of the trees again," joked Kacey.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Tammy. "That captain was pretty cute."

"You just appreciated that he got your name," answered Kacey.

"You gotta admit, not many people - not even Rangers! - know about Tamara Sperling." Her father had been a big sci-fi fan, though, and had named his only daughter after two of his favorite Heinlein characters - Tamara Sperling, a hetaera (or, as Tammy joked, a "space hooker"), and Jillian Boardman, a nurse and the heroine of Stranger In A Strange Land. It was one of Tammy's ways of separating the wheat from the chaff when it came to men; if they didn't get the reference, they were done. JP had gotten it. "I ought to get my bird ready, though. Chief!" she called, turning away.

"Captain?" answered Tim D'Allaird. Chief D'Allaird had known Kacey and Tammy before they were invited to leave the Marines, the Corps in its infinite wisdom deciding that it would rather not have two female pilots who ditched a chopper in the Caribbean. In the Bobbsey Twins' defense, there had been extenuating circumstances: a nuclear blast which had totally fried their bird's electronics, making the subsequent crash a testimony to their skill in that anyone survived, rather than a negative. D'Allaird had been recruited a few months later, after he had separated from the service as well. Now he was the primary flight engineer for the Kildar's burgeoning air force, working harder than ever, teaching Keldara everything he knew, and loving every second.

"We might have to go fishing for Rangers again," said Tammy. "We up on Valkyrie?"

"Ready to roll."

"Who we got to winch 'em up?"

"Naida's got the duty right now, but I've got nothing doing right now if you prefer?"

"No, she's passed all her qualifications. Gotta solo sometime, right?"

"Gotcha. We're ready to roll."

===============================

"Captain! Company all present and accounted for, two injured," reported First Sergeant Michael Kwan. Another veteran of the first Keldara mission, Kwan was nearing twenty years in uniform. Unlike JP, though, he wasn't planning on going anywhere soon.

"Who?"

"Corporal Sivula, and Specialist Lynch. Lynch rolled his ankle landing. Sivula managed to knock himself out. I didn't see it, but I was told he came down on a rock, got caught by a gust of wind and dragged along for a few feet. He's conscious now. Robinson's looking after him." Daniel Robinson was the company's medic.

"Any sign of the Keldara?" Last time, the women had met his men out in the fields to collect and fold the chutes. It was a nervous few minutes, though, as the Rangers hadn't been alerted to being met.

"No, sir. It seems they're holding back this time." Kwan looked around. "We're ready to move out when you are, sir."

"Good. Let's get the men moving, then."

===============================

The first Rangers were at the edge of the field when a black Expedition pulled up. JP brought himself to attention and saluted as the man he knew as Mike Jenkins got out. "Captain JP Guerrin and company reporting for duty, sir!" he snapped.

Mike stopped, surprised, then returned the salute. "Welcome back, Captain!" he said. "At ease! You know," he said as he walked forward, grinning, to shake his hand, "That's the first time in years anyone from outside the Valley has saluted me. Usually it goes the other way around." His smile became broader. "I see you missed the trees. Tammy'll be disappointed; she was all set to come to your rescue."

"Good to be back, Kildar," JP replied. "If you don't mind, though, I have two injured men I'd like to get into shelter as soon as possible." It wasn't artic cold any longer, but he knew that Sivula and Lynch would do better if they could keep warm.

"No problem. Do you want our doctor to look at them?"

"You have a doctor now? Probably be a good idea for one of them, make sure he's not concussed."

Mike nodded and turned. "Serena!" he called. One of the Keldara girls ran up. "I need you to take these men to the hospital. Sergeant - Kwan?"

"Kildar?"

"Serena will take your men up, if you'll point them out to her?" Turning back to JP, he continued, "In the meantime, we'll get your men settled. It won't be quite as complicated as last time."

"No more harem quarters?" asked JP

"No," Mike said, "Sorry. We have three, I guess you could call them community buildings, set up as shelters during the winter. There's enough space for all your company. I do have enough room at the caravanserai for you and your officers, though."

"We'll get the men in first, if you don't mind, then settle the rest of quarters. I'm a little uneasy living up there -" He gestured at the vaguely Turkish-looking castle perched on top of the hill. " - while my men are down here."

Mike shrugged. "Whatever you prefer, Captain. I've been in your shoes, though, and I have to say that I never needed an extra opportunity to be uncomfortable. It always came around enough sooner or later."

===============================

Corporal Andrew Sivula didn't feel concussed. That's what the weird Russian doctor had said, though, and he'd spent enough time in hospitals to not argue with a doc. Besides, it kept him in a nice, warm, comfortable bed overnight, instead of wherever the rest of the company was bunking.

Still, he had to wonder if the doctor was right. He had to be seeing things, or something, because...

"You are awake, finally," said the woman sitting next to him. Her brown eyes were rimmed in red, as if she'd been crying, and filled with concern. Her face was framed by curly brown hair, and he could feel her hand on his.

"Jessia?"

She nodded. "Welcome home, Andrew." Then she was kissing him.

Not the worst way to wake up.

CHAPTER 14

The Caravanserai

April 3

"It's time." It was early, nearing nine.

Mike finished adjusting his collar. "Tell me again why I'm doing this?"

Anastasia smiled. "Because it is right."

"I meant this outfit."

Mike's outfit was - spectacular, was the only word he could come up with. It was based on traditional Keldara dress, but Anastasia had declared it her duty to procure all the pieces.

The shirt was a Russian kosovorotka made of silk instead of linen, in a dark indigo. Embroidered ribbons decorated the shirt on the chest, sleeves, and around the hem, with Keldaran icons skillfully woven in. Over it, he wore a vest in red, overlaid with more patterned icons. His boots were handmade of soft leather and came halfway up his calves. He had finally rebelled at the pants, though, as she had brought in a loose, silken pair that, to his mind, looked more like something out of Arabian Nights. Thus, he was wearing jeans - a good pair, at least.

"You look magnificent," she insisted. Taking his arm, she led him to the door. "Katrina is most fortunate you finally agreed."

"Not like I had much choice," he muttered. "All of you were in on her little scheme."

She laughed. "Naturally! Mike," she said, suddenly serious, "We all love you. We want you to be happy. Katrina - she will make you happy."

"I'm still not -"

"Shush." She placed a finger across his lips. "She will make you happy. Now." She opened the door. "Shall we?"

The ceremony, called a handfasting, was taking place in the large foyer of the caravanserai, rather than in front of the houses as was usual. When Mike had objected, Anastasia had explained the significance. "When one Family is joined to another, they meet before the houses of all the Families. This shows that they are all gathered to accept the bonding, that no one Family is taking advantage of another, that it is suitable to all. In this case, the Kildar is taking a bride of the Keldara. All the Keldara will be elevated by this marriage, not just a single Family. Besides," she added, "It snowed again last night. It is too cold today to do this outdoors."

Mike and Anastasia stood at the top of the stairs. Below, they could see the gathered Elders of the Keldara, Father Kulcyanov in the lead, wearing the old tiger skin that was his mantle as High Priest. On his right, to his surprise, was Mother Lenka. To the right stood Adams, Nielson, the Vanners - hell, it looked like the whole damned household was there! On the left was Father Devlich, his Family behind him. Mother Devlich and Katrina stood in front of and slightly to the left of Father Kulcyanov.

They made their way down the stairs and stopped before Father Kulcyanov. Mike hoped that everyone remembered their lines.

"Who brings this woman before me?" rang Father Kulcyanov's voice.

"I, Mother of the House Devlich," Mother Devlich said.

"Is she pure?" Father Kulcyanov asked.

"She is. On my oath as a Mother."

"Is she free of defect?" This question had worried Mike the most. Katrina was one of the most intelligent of the Keldara. She also complained, occasionally, of feeling split, feeling torn, of feeling that there were too many thoughts in her head. Mike thought that giving her outlets for her curiosity had helped, but...

"She is. On my oath as a Mother."

"Is she fit to bear child, to bring forth warriors and wives, to be a Mother of Tigers, to bring honor to the Keldara?"

"She is. On my oath as a Mother."

"Is she suited to be the woman of the Kildar, to stand by him as he leads the Keldara into battle, to give him strength unto the day of the final battle?" This was different. Then again, there hadn't been a handfasting of a Kildaran in...

"She is. On my oath as a Mother."

Father Kulcyanov seemed satisfied. He called, "Bring me the Kildar."

Anastasia and Mike stepped forward, Mike on the inside, toward Katrina.

"Who brings this man before me?"

"I, the woman of the Kildar." Anastasia spoke. This part had required some debate. While the Kildaran was, technically, the woman of the Kildar, Stasia had never sought, or wanted, the title. She was content as Mike's harem manager and bedmate, never desiring more. The ceremony required that Mike be presented to the High Priest by an intimate member of his household, however. A compromise had finally been reached.

"Do you freely acknowledge the supremacy of the Kildaran in the household, and accept her as such?"

"I do. On my honor."

Father Kulcyanov turned to Mike. "Kildar. You have been proved worthy of your title. Do you now choose to bring this girl into your House as your equal?"

Mike was a little surprised, both at the gist of the question, and the dispensation of the other questions. At other handfastings, the boy's family had been asked a series of questions similar to the girls: is he pure, does he bear defect, is he fit to father children. But, Mike realized with a jolt, they already knew the answers in his case.

The fucking Rite. No, he certainly was not pure. No, he doesn't bear defect. Yes, he was fit to father children. All of these, proven many times over as result of the Rite. Then he considered the question itself. In all of Keldaran society, women had been treated as definite second-class citizens. They went from being controlled by their Father to being controlled by their husband. Until he had come to the valley, the highest a woman could aspire to was becoming the Mother of a Family, or, once a generation, initiated into the women's Mysteries as High Priestess. Most spent their lives in toil, bearing and raising children, keeping the household, helping farm. To be asked if he was prepared to treat Katrina as his equal was unexpected. With Katrina, he wouldn't have had a choice anyway, so the answer was easy.

"I do so choose."

"Kildar. Do you agree to teach your children the way of the warrior and the value of honor?"

Given what Mike knew of the Keldaran background, this question wasn't a surprise. "I agree."

Mother Lenka turned to Katrina and spoke. This was a change, too, as only Father Kulcyanov ever addressed the couple. "Katrina, as you are my heir, do you swear to honor the Goddess in all things, to teach the women of the Keldara the Mysteries, and in your time choose an heir worthy of the knowledge that has been given to you?"

Mother Lenka was the Priestess of the Goddess - what goddess, Mike hadn't yet completely determined - and had publicly named Katrina as heir about a year ago, confirming what her Family already knew. It made sense, Mike supposed, that the Kildaran would also be Priestess, and while Mike knew that there had to be more oaths and promises between them, this was a public affirmation of the bond between the two women.

Katrina's voice, when she answered, was clear and firm. "I swear."

Father Kulcyanov took over again, taking Mike and Katrina's unrestricted hand and joining them together. Her fine-boned hand was warm in his. "Michael, do you give your Promise to Katrina Devlich, save only that agreement can be reached with her Family?"

He looked down into her blue eyes. "I do."

"Katrina Devlich, do you give your Promise to Michael -"

"Harmon," interrupted Mike, quietly. Silence. The ceremony was set, immutable. It wasn't supposed to be stopped for anything, especially the future husband.

"Kildar?" asked Father Kulcyanov.

"Michael Harmon. That's my name. This is a bonding between the Kildar and the Keldara, right? For this one time, there will be no secrets between us. My name is Michael Harmon." It was also a name buried in paperwork and a dark history, known to very few people anywhere, and only one here. It was the name at the top of every Islamist jihadist's Most Wanted. In speaking his true name aloud, Mike was demonstrating, as clearly as he possibly could, the depth of his trust in the Keldara, and his own commitment to their mutual future.

Father Kulcyanov acknowledged the statement with a grave nod, the gravity entirely erased by the joyous twinkle in his old eyes. " - Give your Promise to Michael Harmon, save only that agreement can be reached with your Family?"

Her voice was even stronger. "I do."

Father Kulcyanov turned to the assembled people. "By the traditions of the Six Families, these people are bonded to each other for this life. In the sight of the All Father, I ask for his blessing upon them."

Suddenly Mike was swarmed under by cheering men, crying women, back slappers - somewhere a bottle of champagne was produced, then others, corks popped, and suddenly the Nannies were there, with Kurosawa and Bridgewater overseeing the affair. Glasses were produced until everyone had enough for a toast. "To Mike and Katrina!" came the cry - it was Adams - but then it was overridden by a booming voice: "The Kildar and the Kildaran!" called Father Kulcyanov. "The Kildar and Kildaran!" came the responding echo from dozens of throats.

===============================

Some time later, Mike managed to drag Nielson, Vanner, Anastasia, Father Kulcyanov, and Katrina aside to a sort of alcove, with a few chairs and a small sofa. Mike sat on the sofa, Katrina next to him, while the others settled around. Bridgewater followed closely.

"Where's Adams?" he asked.

"Last I saw, he was leaving with Mopsy," answered Vanner. Mopsy was the name Mike gave to one of the three hookers who had taken up permanent residence in the caravanserai.

"Shall I fetch him, sir?" asked Bridgewater.

"No, Colin, not now. I'll call if I need you."

"Very good, sir." His British batman made a discreet withdrawal.

"I'd hoped to talk to all of you at once, but... Folks, I'm going to take Katrina away for a while." A chorus of protests leapt up; Mike chose to answer Katrina first.

"When did you plan to tell me of this?" she had snapped.

"I just told you, didn't I?" he grinned.

"Mike!"

"Seriously. Even though I've known you longer than anyone else in the valley, we still don't know each other well. I know where you came from, the culture you grew up in; can you say the same for me?"

"Not really."

"Our cultures are different. You know this, but you might not really feel it. In America, we would not have been 'arranged' like this. We would have met, and dated -"

"Dated?"

"See?" he said, smiling. "Different. Think of this as a chance to ask all the questions you want of me. I'll do my best to answer."

Father Kulcyanov objected next. "Kildar, it is not proper -"

"Nope, sorry, not going to buy it. I've been thinking about this for a while, since you and the Elders talked to me about this whole process. I understand that there is a waiting period before the wedding, but there's nothing in there that forbids me from spending time with her. Am I right?"

"No, Kildar, you are right, but -"

"As long as I do not violate her honor, I bring no shame upon her."

"No, Kildar, but -"

"I am going to take Katrina away, Father. I will bring her back, intact, on my honor as Kildar. I will honor your traditions, but you have to bend on this one, Father." He relented, "I will take a chaperone. Will that satisfy?"

Father Kulcyanov considered this gravely, then nodded. "It will. It is still not - common, but then again..."

"Where are you thinking on going?" asked Nielson. "It's not like we're in the middle of planning for a major op, or anything."

"We're beating our dicks right now," replied Mike. "Adams is running the training as best he can, given we don't know the layout we'll be assaulting. Vanner, is there anything you need?"

"Besides better sources? The US feed is good for technical intercepts, but garbage for anything on the ground. Russians are the other way around, but the problem with their sources is, well, sources lie. We have to combine the two takes and hope for corroboration."

"You think that we actually have the information we need?"

"I'm sure of it. It's just a question of sifting through the piles, and that just takes time."

"Nielson. There's training and planning. What's left? The Rangers have arrived; you're in charge of integrating them with our comm system, getting them familiar with their patrol duties, right?"

"Well, yes, Kildar, but -"

"Then execute! Dammit, Dave, I need a vacation. I need to get out of here, I need some time to get to know Katrina."

Nielson sighed. "I know better than to argue with you. How long will you be gone?"

"Two weeks?" Mike looked at Father Kulcyanov. "Is there anything you need Katrina for that won't wait that long?"

"No, Kildar." He, too, was resigned - but there was that twinkle again.

"Anastasia, you're coming with."

"Why, Kildar? Shouldn't I stay here and help prepare?"

"Besides the promise I made about travel? I need a woman chaperone; you're the sensible choice. Plus," he added with a knowing look, "I'll have... other uses for you. And finally, I need you to take care of Katrina's dress."

"What dress?" snapped Katrina. "My family has a dress!"

"Which I'm sure your mother wore, and her mother, and her mother, right?"

"Yes, Kildar. It is the dress of the Family."

"You're leaving the Family. You get a new dress. Speaking of leaving the family - Father, what about bride price?"

"Kildar, obviously you do not need to collect a bride price."

"I mean, towards the Family. Since Katrina is being taken from the Family, isn't it right that they be compensated for their loss?"

"Ahh," said Father Kulcyanov. "Yes, Kildar. It is customary for the Kildar to pay for his Kildaran."

"What is it set at?"

"Double the usual bride price - a thousand rubles." About thirty dollars, but several months' income for a family, at least pre-Kildar.

Mike snorted. "It will be arranged. Stasia?"

"How soon are we leaving?"

"Tomorrow, if I can arrange it."

"Mmm. I'll need to get some measurements and make a phone call."

"Who?"

"Amelia Weston. If I am to manage this dress, I'll need her contacts. Katrina, come with me." Her tone brooked no disagreement. The two women left.

Nielson spoke up again. "Why are you really doing this, Mike?"

"I told you -"

"Bullshit."

Mike looked at him. "Cards on the table, then. Sometimes a personal visit will shake loose details that get lost in transition. If there's an agency holding back, a visit by the Kildar might just get them to open up." He leaned back. "Consider it a working vacation." He turned to Father Kulcyanov. "Father, I hope you understand. I'm not trying to be stubborn -"

"Oh, yes you are, Kildar," he disagreed, smiling. "You have been stubborn since the day you came to this valley. That is why you are the perfect Kildar for us at this time." He sat, carefully, and continued. "Kildar, we are an old culture. In cultures, as well as in individuals, age brings rigidity, an unwillingness to accept change. We knew that the world had changed around us, but were unwilling, or perhaps unable, to acknowledge that change as long as we were isolated here. Father Ferani and I, and a few others, were the only ones who had ever left the valley and seen anything of the world. Then Stalin came to power, and virtually imprisoned us here. The commissars he appointed kept us stagnant, unchanging. When the Soviets fell, and later the bank took over the caravanserai, we despaired. Then you came, and it was as if the Father of All had smiled upon us again. We knew that you would save us, Kildar, save us from becoming irrelevant, save us from our comfortable little corner of the world."

"You're okay with this?"

Father Kulcyanov laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that resonated through the room. "I only wish you had come sooner! Soon, the Valkyr will come for me. I am too old to leave this valley again. But when I die, I will be content, for I know that the Keldara will grow again into the world."

Nielson spoke up. "Where are you going to go?"

"Well, if Stasia is meeting Mrs. Weston, DC for sure. Have to try to keep Katrina away from the House, though, after that dinner. Maybe a stop in Texas; there's someone there I want Katrina to meet. Beyond that, I don't know, exactly." He leaned forward. "I think it's important that Katrina experience a little of the land that produced me, enough so she has the true flavor of it." He smiled. "Think I'll skip Disney, though."
CHAPTER 15

Mike's Office; The Cave

April 4

"Chatham Aviation, Gloria speaking, how may I help you?"

"Hello Gloria, Mike Jenkins here."

"Oh, hello Mike! It's been far too long!" Chatham Aviation was Mike's usual charter company. They could, and had, provided him with planes from small executive-style jets, to one large enough to carry two Keldara teams and all their gear, plus the pilots to go with them. Pilots who weren't scared off when told to disperse their plane, just in case of nuclear detonation. Pilots who took Mike arriving covered in someone else's blood and reeking of cordite in stride. This charter should be a piece of cake.

"It's been pretty quiet, Gloria."

"Do we need to make any changes to the order Daria has arranged?"

"What? Oh, no, nothing like that. I was wondering if Captain Hardesty was available for the next couple weeks?"

"I believe he is, Mike. How soon do you need him?"

"Can he be in Tbilisi tomorrow?"

"Yes, he can. Will these be short flights, or longer?"

"At least one longer - over to the States and back. A bunch of shorter hops, too. Why?"

"Trying to match you with the right plane. We just acquired a G550; it seats fourteen, berthing for six, and has the range without refueling to make Washington; will that be sufficient?"

"Perfect, Gloria. I'll have a party of three at the airport tomorrow."

=============================

"Captain Guerrin."

"Kildar."

"Are the quarters for your men adequate?"

"Perfectly, thank you. And thank you again for the offer of space in the caravanserai, but my officers and I will remain with the company."

"No problem. Colonel Nielson will be starting your training tomorrow on our patrol routes, security procedures, and comm protocols. If you give him a roster, and recommendations, he'll make up a duty rotation. In addition, we've upgraded the sensor net since your last visit. I'm sure Chief Vanner can't wait to tell you all about it, probably at length. I'd insist on coffee. Lots of it. These are kind of his baby, he's pretty proud of them."

JP nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You can drop the 'sirs' and 'Kildars', Captain. I was in the Teams, and not as an officer. Most people call me Mike."

"Then you can drop the 'Captain' and just call me JP"

"Good enough, JP Do you have any issues you need dealt with on our end?"

"Not really."

Mike's eyebrow quirked. "Not really?"

"Well, there does seem to be one small personnel problem - not really a problem, I think, just a concern, maybe."

Mike gave him a 'come on' gesture.

"It's the man who was in your infirmary overnight. Corporal Sivula?"

"What about him? Complications? I thought he just had a mild concussion?"

"Complications, yes, but not that kind. It seems that the doctor came in this morning to check him and found him kissing one of the local girls."

Mike had to laugh. "That is one slick operator! Less than a day, and in the hospital at that, and he's already landed a Keldara?"

JP grinned back. "It wasn't quite like that, I gather. I had Kwan talk to him; it seems that Sivula and the girl - Jessy? Something like that - have been emailing since we were deployed here last."

"Jessia Mahona," Mike supplied. "One of my mortar team leaders. Sweet girl. Widowed a while ago. She's seemed happier for a while now, and especially in the past week, since news of your company returning went public. Guess I know why, now."

"That's what Sivula said - well, more than that, but you get the idea."

"That I do. He's lucky it's Jessia and not one of the other girls, though. Since she's a widow, most of the Keldara rules about behavior and chaperones don't apply, or at least not as strongly." Mike shrugged. "It's a little awkward, but I don't think there's a problem on this end."

"It's not the Keldara I'm worried about, Mike."

"Your men, J.P, are your problem. Sivula'll take some shit for having a girl here, but if he can't handle it -"

"Mike, he wants to marry her!"

Again, the eyebrow. "And?"

"He can't - I can't - we're on deployment! Kwan tried to tell him he couldn't, and Sivula said he'd resign if he had to!"

Mike looked straight at JP "How you handle it is your choice. But if you don't mind a little advice?"

"I was hoping you'd have a way out of this, maybe some kind of cultural taboo?"

"Nothing like that, sorry. In fact, Sivula's fallen for one of the few women in the Valley it'd be SAFE for him to date - or marry, for that matter. She's been married, so there's no bride price - that's a dowry. Since she was married, she's not betrothed or promised to any man. And since she's a widow, she can choose when, if, and whom she marries again." He smiled. "I'd say he's actually made the best choice possible. Like I said, lucky."

"I can't have one of my men distracted on mission, though! You know that's a recipe for disaster!"

"Agreed. Not sure, though what I can do about it. I can't tell Jessia to break up with him - even if it was right, I don't think she'd listen, Kildar or no. Maybe, though -"

"Maybe, what?" JP was ready to leap on any shred of hope.

"This might sound crazy - but how vital is Corporal Sivula to your company? Will his squad fall apart without him?"

JP shook his head, "No. He's a good troop, but I can move him around, especially with the training we'll be doing. Why?"

"Move him to liaison with my mortars teams. Specifically, Jessia's."

"That's like setting the cat to guard the canary!"

"Nope. I know Jessia. If I tell her that Sivula's off-limits on duty - he'll be off-limits on duty. Period. Unless he has no discipline at all - and being a Ranger, I don't think that's an issue - then we've belled the cat."

"What about this whole marriage business?"

"If they want to get married, they get married. They're both of age. No trouble on this end. How about Ranger regulations? Unless he's already married, there's nothing in the UCMJ."

"Nothing specific, no. It's at the discretion of the commanding officer. Haven't had this problem come up before, though."

"Again, you want my advice?"

"I said I did."

"Let 'em. The only condition I'll impose is they have to decide whether to stay here or take her back Stateside. If he's going to stay here, I'm sure I can swing that, either short- or long-term. Same goes for taking Jessia to the States. A visa won't be an issue." He smiled. "I'll throw them a bone. If they're serious about this, then I'll arrange the ceremony for them. It can happen at the festival of Balar."

"The festival of who?"

"Balar. It's a celebration of spring, derived from the Celtic Beltane. Big, big festival. Games, like the Highland Games, and the winner is crowned the Ondah, King of Spring."

"I still don't think this is a great idea, but you know these people. And I know Sivula; he's pretty level-headed, usually. He wouldn't be pulling something like this on a whim."

"Good. Once you talk to him, I want to talk to them both, so check with Daria on the way out, see what I have free later today."

"What about tomorrow?"

"Won't work; I'm leaving for a while starting tomorrow. Don't worry," he continued hastily, seeing the look on JP's face. "It is mission-related." Sort of, he silently added.

=============================

"Vanner. Grez. Stella. What do we have on Kassab?" Mike was in the intel room, called the Cave, surrounded by chattering printers and whirring computers.

"Nothing much. Cottontail has planted a few bugs on their windows, and managed to slip one under the rear door, but the take hasn't been great. Lots of griping about duty, who gets to patrol, shit like that. Kassab's having a hell of a time keeping them occupied. From what we've pieced together, we think that there's been a delay. There are a couple references to 'the package' - aren't they so clever? - being late."

Grez picked up. "They keep a very poor guard, especially at night. When we want to take it down, we should not have any problems."

"How many are there?"

"A total of eight. We have identified three by name - Kassab, although he almost never leaves the building; Salah, we think he's the one who used the cell phone; and Ghazi. Salah and Ghazi have both been outside on guard duty at various times, and Ghazi has gone to the market twice."

Stella added, "Kassab is the only one with any security sense. Although he has been using his cell phone quite a bit lately, he has stayed away from the ground floor, so we cannot pick up his end of the calls. We are using Echelon to search for the conversations happening at the times we know he calls, but we still have a large number to sort through."

"That leaves us with another problem, though," said Vanner. "Even if we pick out his conversations, we might not know who he's talking to, and we probably won't know where they are. That's assuming, too, that the person on the other end is at their base, and not passing a message on from a safer location. If this whole project has been planned by an expert - and it feels more and more like it has - then he's at least built that much security into it. We might need to snatch Kassab and his team and discuss it with them."

"Beat them with sledgehammers until they talk, you mean."

"Well, yeah. It's worked before!"

"Right. I will be in contact daily; I want to hear about anything you think could be important, no matter how small it seems. You have good instincts," he continued, looking at Grez and Stella, "And I know you'll crack this."

=============================

"What a day," Mike said as he dropped into a chair in the kitchen. Mother Savina and Mother Griffina were directing Olrun and Hildr, making dinner.

Mike had come down just to catch his breath; it seemed that every time he went up to his office, he thought of something else that needed his attention. He couldn't hide in his quarters, either, as like as not Kurosawa would be there with his jars and his needles, ready for another session. It was a fine line. On the one hand, he could have pain in his joints all day, every day, and twice as bad in the morning. On the other hand, there was that lovely burning sensation all over his body, plus ending the session weak as a kitten. Of course, he was promised that the long-term benefits would be worth it, but...

Tonight, he'd almost forgotten. It was only the slightest hint that reminded him that Kurosawa was probably lurking by his door.

I've got to find more for that batman to do, he thought. He's spending way too much time working on me. Damn, it's black magic though. Probably wants another session before I leave on the trip. That'll be fun. Wish he hadn't told me what was in those jars. Herbal medicines, fine. But fugu? Shit! We used that stuff in the teams a couple times. Nasty, nasty crap. No thank you! Not tonight!

Adams was already at the table, in a dirty - no, filthy - uniform, drinking a beer.

"What a bitch it is, being Kildar," he said.

"Don't worry, Master Chief. You'll have your turn soon enough," Mike said, opening a beer of his own and taking a long pull.

"What do you mean?" asked Adams suspiciously.

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"You usually know all the gossip around here. You mean the grapevine let you down this time?"

"I've been down with Team Padrek at the shoot house all fucking afternoon, Mike. I haven't heard squat."

"Oh, you mean you did some work after playing with Mopsy?"

"Some of us don't have a harem and have to get it when we can."

"You really don't know."

"Fuck you, Mike, know what?!"

"You're holding the bag here starting tomorrow."

"Bullshit."

"No shit. Katrina and I are taking a vacation, and I'm leaving you in charge while I'm gone."

"Are you completely fuckin' nuts? We have a major op going down here any day!"

"Not that soon," corrected Mike. "While you've been playing soldier, I've been running through everything we know, think, and suspect, which, I'll tell you now, ain't much. There's nothing to indicate any action happening soon. In fact, our one solid lead is complaining about delays."

"Even more reason to stick around! If they're waiting, and it's late, then as soon as it arrives, their op goes down!"

"And if it arrives, they go down. Cottontail has it staked out, and we've got shooters to back her up, enough to take out the people there. So that's it, you're holding the bag."

"Can't wait to pop that virgin pussy - awk!" Adams' voice was abruptly cut off as Mike reached over and pushed him ass over teakettle onto the floor.

"Piss off! You're on thin ice here, Chief!" Mike waited a moment, letting his anger subside. "I told you, I'm doing this right. That means not sneaking a piece of ass," he said more calmly. "Besides. Stasia's coming along to 'chaperone,' and, ah, other reasons," he finished with a leer.

"Oh, that's all kinds of good. Gonna fuck your way cross country? Never mind, I so don't want to know." Mike stood up and put his chair back. "Fine, good, get out of here. Just don't think this is gonna get you out of that bachelor party. You being gone, gives me more room to maneuver." Adams' grin was purely evil. In fact, he looked just like Kurosawa when he said, "This shouldn't hurt. Much."

=============================

A knock on the door.

"Come."

The door opened, revealing a man and a woman standing, holding hands.

"Ah, Jessia, come in. And you must be Corporal Sivula," Mike said, coming around the desk. He reached out, shook his hand, and gestured them to the couch. "Please, sit. This isn't going to be formal, and you're not in trouble, either of you. I just wanted to talk to you."

They sat, gingerly, in the indicated spot. "It's Andrew," said Sivula, as he settled in.

"Then I'm Mike. Like I said, there's not going to be a problem here. But Captain Guerrin and I want to make sure we're doing the right thing for you. He had a chance to talk to you?"

Jessia answered. "Yes, Kildar."

"And he explained the options you have?"

Andrew and Jessia looked at each other. "Yes," she said.

"Then what's it going to be?"

Jessia looked at Andrew again, then replied, "We want to get married."

"And where are you going to live?"

Andrew fielded this. "If possible, sir, we'd like to stay here, at least at first." Jessia, Mike saw, gripped Andrew's hand tighter.

"That can be arranged. I could use another experienced soldier around here, especially with the mortars. How long do you still have in your term?"

"Fourteen months," said Andrew.

"Think you can handle the job? Fire lanes, movement, planning, logistics, it's all going to fall on you. I need someone who'll be able to keep up with these girls."

Finally, Andrew smiled. "I can do that, sir."

"Jessia? You understand that he's going to be off-limits, on duty?"

"Of course, Kildar!" She sounded offended that he'd even brought it up, as he had more than half-expected.

"What about timing? Did the captain mention my proposal?"

Jessia dimpled. "Truly, Kildar? We could marry at the festival?"

"Truly, Jessia."

"And the Kilda - uh, Katrina, she doesn't mind sharing her day?"

"She, and I, will be honored." Seeing the bewilderment on Sivula's face, Mike explained, "I'm getting married the same day, during the same festival. You know," he continued, "You're going to have to learn the Keldaran dialect of Georgian, right?"

"Yes, Kildar," replied Sivula in that language.

Mike laughed. "That's a good start! Hope you also know 'yes, dear.'"

=============================

One more knock. Kurosawa's. Crap. He thought he'd dodged him.

Sigh. "Come." The door sprang open and a red-topped blur rushed at his desk.

Katrina bounded - there really wasn't any other word for it - in, over the desk, and dropped into Mike's lap.

"Tomorrow, we go?"

"Tomorrow, we go. Excited?" he asked, as if he hadn't seen her entrance.

"Ecstatic!" She emphasized it with a kiss. "How will we get there?"

"Fly, of course. We'll have Captain Wilson fly us to the airport, where we'll meet a jet."

"What is flying in a jet like?"

"Just you wait. If Stasia agrees, I'll have the pilot give you a thrill when we take off."

"As long as you're with me, I'll be fine." She nestled closer to Mike. "And how closely will Stasia be watching us?"

"Closely enough, minx! I promised that I would return you honor intact, and I mean to keep my word, despite your temptations." Mike smiled. "Are you ready? Did you pack?"

She shook her head. "Stasia said something about I needed a new wardrobe?"

"Oh, lord. I should never have introduced her to credit cards."

"Credit cards?"

"Never you mind."
CHAPTER 16

The Valley; Tbilisi; Airborne over Europe

April 5

Stasia climbed into the Hind first, then Katrina, and finally Mike. As Stasia helped Katrina with the restraints - something Katrina was suspiciously adept at, he noticed - Mike slipped on the headset and Naida shut the door. "Ready when you are, Valkyrie."

"Roger, Kildar," came Tammy's voice in his headset. "Any requests for the ride?" He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Nice and gentle, Valkyrie. Show her the sights. Out." He removed his headset and sat next to Katrina, who Stasia had seated by the window, facing forward. Stasia sat facing aft, opposite them. Katrina took his hand as soon as he was buckled in.

"Now?"

"In just a moment, Captain Wilson will start the engines. You'll need to have a headset on so we can talk, like Stasia has. See?" Stasia pointed to her own head, already fitted with her mike and phones. Shortly, the twin turbines started with a whine, and the massive rotor started to turn. In moments, they were at full power. Katrina squeaked when the ground suddenly dropped away. "Mike!"

"This is normal," said Stasia before Mike could react. "Don't be afraid; you'll enjoy it!"

True to her word, the flight to Tbilisi was an air tourist's dream. Tammy kept up a running commentary, soon interrupted by Katrina's eager, "What is that?" and "What is this?" over the intercom. Mike just sat back and enjoyed watching her.

Far too soon, the grey outskirts of the city replaced the forest and rivers. "Is that Tbilisi?" she asked. "It's so big!"

"Almost a million and a half people live here," answered Mike.

"So many!" He had to admit it was a sizable city, even by American standards. The architectural variety amazed him, as usual. An ancient city, oft-conquered, Tbilisi was an eclectic mix of styles, from old Georgian, to neo-classical European, Russian, Soviet, and Middle Eastern, with no clear defining lines between them.

The city had reined in the unchecked growth of the post-Soviet era, and, from the air, Mike could sense, more than really see, a plan beginning to emerge. He pointed out the oddly shaped Roads Department Building, a Soviet holdover, which looked like nothing so much as a set of blocks stacked at right angles, jutting out of a cliffside. Tammy, with her better view in the cockpit, told them when they were passing Sameba cathedral, the main Georgian Orthodox church. After a few minutes, the chopper started to descend toward the airport.

"Already?" Katrina pouted.

"Fraid so. See?" Mike pointed. "I think that's our plane." The twin-engined G550 was parked at the private terminal Chatham Aviation commonly used. As the Hind flared into its landing, the pilot of the Gulfstream was seen stepping down the boarding stairs. The turbines gradually cycled down, and the rotors slowed, slowed, and finally stopped.

"Everyone out!" said Mike, unlatching the crew door before Naida could reach it.

"Mr. Jenkins, a pleasure, as always."

"Captain Hardesty. Anything exciting going on?"

"Not unless you're not telling me something," the pilot said with a small smile.

"Not this time."

"Miss Rakovich. As lovely as ever." Stasia managed a blush. "I don't believe I know the other young lady?"

"Ah, yes. Captain Hardesty, Miss Katrina Devlich. Katrina, Captain John Hardesty."

"A pleasure, Miss Devlich." Captain Hardesty took her hand and gave a brief bow over it.

"The pleasure is mine, Captain," returned Katrina, after a quick glance at Stasia. She'd obviously been given some etiquette lessons.

"Miss Devlich is the Kildar's fiancée," added Stasia.

"My congratulations, Mr. Jenkins!" said Hardesty. "And my sympathy, Miss Devlich," he added, with a broad wink.

This threw Katrina for a loop until Mike clarified. "I've had some interesting flights with Captain Hardesty. I promise, nothing like that this time! Why won't anyone believe me?"

"Your luggage?"

"Just my bags, for now," Mike said, ominously. "Stasia is going to take Katrina shopping."

"Oh. Glad I've cleared out plenty of room in the boot."

"Very funny, Captain," replied Stasia. Katrina still looked confused, so she elaborated, "I have flown with Captain Hardesty before, and one trip -"

"Which was for a single day, I might add!" interjected the captain.

"For a single day, yes, I purchased quite a selection for the Kildar. He feels that he can tease me a bit."

"In any case," said Mike, attempting to steer the conversation back, "It's time to board the plane. Captain, Miss Rakovich has agreed to permit you one of your more typical takeoffs, just once, so Miss Devlich can get the full experience. This will be her first flight."

"Are you sure, Mr. Jenkins? This plane has an even better performance than others -"

"Positive." Mike smiled. John Hardesty had been a fighter pilot in the RAF before retiring, and still preferred to squeeze every drop of adrenaline out of his takeoffs. The G550, with a maximum speed over five hundred miles per hour, and engines generating more than 15000 pounds of thrust, came closer than most to matching what Hardesty used to fly. And given the, ah, 'aggressive' nature of his usual takeoffs...!

Mike was eagerly anticipating what Hardesty could do with the plane, while Stasia was at least willing to play along, once. "Do your best."

That got a wide grin from Hardesty. "Yes, sir!"

A few minutes later, the three were settled into a couch in the cabin. Mike would have preferred individual seats, of which there were plenty, but he didn't want to leave Katrina on her own, and Stasia, a nervous flyer at best, insisted on holding his hand.

"Everyone secure?" he asked, checking their belts.

"Yes, Mike," answered Katrina. Stasia just gripped harder. "You might like this more, Stasia," he said. "We'll be up and cruising even faster than usual."

"I hope so," she replied.

"Rolling to taxi," came Captain Hardesty over the intercom. The jet gently began to move away from the terminal. In just a couple moments, they were at the end of their runway, waiting for clearance.

Katrina quickly grew impatient.

"Mike, I thought you said this would be exciting?" she demanded. Just then, the engines rose in pitch and volume and the aircraft fairly leapt forward. In seconds, they were hurtling down the runway, then they were airborne and climbing at what felt to the ladies a nearly vertical angle.

"John's really letting it all out!" called Mike over the roar of the engines as the ground dropped away. Katrina, forward on the couch, was pressed hard against his side, while Stasia was leaning against the bulkhead to the aft. Mike turned to Stasia; she was wide-eyed, obviously frightened, but he could see her pleasure under her fear. He looked back to Katrina; she was simply ecstatic, as wide a smile as he could ever remember etched on her face, enjoying every second of the climb.

"See?" he said, "I told you, you just had to experience it!"

All too soon, the engines' scream died away as they began to level out. Brilliant sunlight shone in the large, oval windows, and the clouds were left far below.

"We'll be leveling off at forty-five thousand feet," Captain Hardesty announced. "Should be a nice smooth flight all the way to DC. Estimated flight time is twelve hours. Feel free to move about."

"Forty-five...thousand?" gasped Katrina. "That's over eight miles!"

"Yep," agreed Mike. "Smoother up here, fewer planes, less turbulence. Look out the window." He pointed forward to a window. "See that screen? The map on it is generated by a GPS unit, so you can tell where we are, what we're passing over. Right now," he looked, "We're still over Georgia, heading to the Black Sea. We'll be near Sochi, actually - maybe we should spend time on the 'Sudden Stop'?" he added wickedly. His yacht was moored in Sochi, the closest, or at least most convenient, major port to the valley. "I don't know if we'll actually overfly the Sea - I can ask Captain Hardesty?"

"This is wonderful!" said Katrina, simply. She was enraptured, looking from the map, to the window, and back, over and over. He moved over to Stasia.

Her skin was flushed, her breath shallow and rapid. "How are you doing?" he asked, gently.

"That was wonderful!" she breathed. "Oh, Mike, why didn't you tell me it could be like that?"

He looked at her, stunned. "You enjoyed that?" he asked.

"Enjoyed?" she replied, taking his hand and guiding him between her legs. She was sopping wet. "That was almost as good as you!" She reached an arm around his neck and pulled him close for a kiss. "How long do you think Katrina will be distracted?"
CHAPTER 17

Airborne over Europe and Atlantic

April 5/6

A little while later, Mike returned forward.

"Where are we?" he asked Katrina, who was still avidly tracking their progress.

"We are near Kaliningrad, in Russia. Why is Russia here, too? It's all by itself." By a geopolitical oddity, Kaliningrad and its environs had remained a part of Russia after the Soviet break-up, separated by Lithuania and Belarus. It was a little island of Russia, in effect.

He sat back down next to her. "Couple reasons, honey. The port never freezes in winter, so it's the Russians' only ice-free port on the Baltic Sea. Also, unlike all the other little countries around here, Kaliningrad has never been independent. It had always been part of 'something bigger', so when everyone was declaring their independence, they didn't have any kind of tradition or history of it. They just stayed - Russian."

She leaned into him. "I like flying," she said. "Why doesn't Stasia?"

"She likes flying, it's just the takeoffs she's not too thrilled with." Not until now, he thought. Usually the submissive partner, Stasia had nearly thrown Mike onto the couch as soon as the cabin door shut. She stripped off his pants and taken him into her mouth until he was hard and ready, then slid down onto him. She came the first time in seconds, and again, and again, before he finally came as well. Only then, relaxing atop his chest, did she revert to her usual role. The subsequent punishment session had been good for them both, and left her exhausted and spent, and him stress-free.

"She'll be up and about it a few hours."

As the plane crossed over the North Sea, Mike and Katrina talked. Truly talked. She asked him about his past - his life as a SEAL, his ex-wife, his relationships - and he answered. They talked about what Katrina's life would have been like without Mike's arrival ("I would have gone to town, for sure."), and what Katrina wanted for the future. To their mutual surprise, they found that they were more alike than not. Oh, their experiences couldn't have been more different.

Mike grew up in the most connected, technologically advanced country in the world; Katrina, a small valley in the third world. Mike had gone to school with hundreds of children, thought nothing of going to another town for his little league games; she had never properly attended school, really knew only the people in the Families, and had never ventured farther than Alersso.

Yet, despite these and countless other points of divergence, they had both grown into the one person perfectly suited for the other. He could see that she would steady him, provide an anchor to keep what he thought of as his "dark side" bay; he would give her, in turn, the understanding she would need to face her own demons, the strength to fight against them, and the knowledge that they could be defeated.

By the time they crossed the Faroes into the Atlantic, he was convinced.

Their conversation had pretty well stopped by then. Her body, pressed tight against his, raised his awareness of just how lush her body had become. His hands moved, almost involuntarily, along her sides, and she leaned back into a kiss. Her hands were busy too, caressing his arms, guiding his hands over her breasts. No bra, he noticed absently. None needed. Her breasts were firm and warm, the nipples hard between his fingers.

"I have dreamt of this," she whispered to him. His hands slid under her blouse and back to cup her tits. She turned fully into him, biting his neck and ear. Quickly, Mike pulled her blouse up over her head, trapping her hands. He held her arms, feeling the goose bumps rise as he kissed the sensitive juncture of her neck and shoulder. Using his tongue, he teased his way down her chest, from one beautiful breast to the other, circling but never quite reaching her nipples. She moaned and writhed under him. When he finally took a nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping it gently with his teeth, her body arched as she orgasmed. With an expert touch, he kept her quivering on the brink, pushing her over with a flick and then pulling her back. Finally, she gasped, "No more, no more," and he relented. He slid her blouse back down over her chest and pulled her back into him.

"That was wonderful," she sighed. "I had no idea it would feel so good!"

He smiled down at her. "That's just a start, dear. You wait."

"And how am I to wait, now that I know what I have missed?" she insisted.

"We'll manage," he answered. "Remember, I gave my word -"

" - and you deliver on your promises, yes, I know. But it will be hard to wait!"

"That's the idea."

=========================

An hour later, Stasia emerged from the rear cabin, looking as if nothing had been amiss. "Ready for lunch?" asked Mike. "The steward prepared plenty; I was about to ask Katrina to wake you."

"You wouldn't wake me yourself?" she asked, eyes twinkling.

"Not on a bet," he laughed. "Sit down and eat. We can talk about our plans between bites."

"It's different," said Katrina.

"Yeah, it is. I didn't specify a menu, so Chatham gave us a menu of British food, done well." He pointed. "That's beef Wellington, those are Yorkshire puddings, and that's a Shepherd's pie. Mixed vegetables, bread, and, Tony, didn't you say something about dessert?"

The steward answered from his miniature kitchen. "Yes, sir, a banoffee pie."

"Banoffee?" said Stasia around a mouthful.

"A portmanteau -"

"A combined word," clarified Mike.

"Of 'banana' and 'toffee'," finished Tony. "A specialty of Mrs. Chatham, sir, she made one specifically for you and your guests."

"Very kind of her," replied Stasia, as Mike was busy shoveling. "Was it not, Michael?"

He swallowed hurriedly. "Yes, very kind!" he managed. Tony retired back to the kitchen, and Mike continued. "We'll arrive in DC about two in the afternoon, local time. Katrina, I'd suggest you get some sleep, if you can. Jet lag is a bitch if you don't know how to deal with it." He saw her look. "We're moving so quickly, our bodies get confused as to what time it is. We left at ten in the morning, we're going to fly for twelve hours, so that would make it ten at night, right?" She agreed. "DC is so far away, their clocks are eight hours behind. About the time you're going to want to go to bed will still be the middle of the day."

"Ah, I think I understand."

"Good. I don't have anything laid on for today; Stasia, you?"

"Yes, Kildar," she answered. "I made an appointment for late afternoon with Noemi Diakite, Amelia Weston recommended me to her. She will take Katrina's measurements again, and we shall discuss the dress she will make for her."

"How long do you expect to be? And where are you meeting?"

"I am to phone her when we arrive, and she will meet us at our hotel."

"Very convenient. And how much will this convenience cost me?"

"Michael!"

"I'm kidding, I'm kidding." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, so you two can have the suite, and I'll rack out in one of the bedrooms."

"You aren't going to help me choose?" asked Katrina plaintively.

"It's considered bad luck for the groom to see the bride in her gown before the wedding," Mike said, trying to placate her.

"In other words, Katrina, it's our problem to solve," explained Stasia. "That's fine, Michael. You will be surprised on your wedding day - and night."

Katrina blushed slightly when Mike answered, "I hope so!"

"How long will Diakite need to make the dress? Will she need Katrina to stay in DC?"

Stasia said, "Not terribly long, and I don't believe she will need her once she has the measurements and we've decided on a design. We do not have a schedule, do we?"

"No, we don't have a schedule, but I'd rather not spend too much time in Sodom-on-Potomac. There's lots of other things I want her to see."

"Like what, Mike?" Katrina was eager to hear.

"Yes, Michael, what do you want Katrina to see?" The insinuation was clear to Mike. "And have I seen it, or is it to be something new?"

"Stasia, you're being a very good girl right now," Mike said, warningly. "And yes, it will be something new for you both. I'm not sure of the exact plan, but I'm thinking of Boston's Freedom Trail, Cooperstown, the Alamo, the Gateway Arch, and a couple other stops. We'll spend a few days each area, so we don't have to rush, and we can always change our minds. Well, almost always change our minds." He reached behind and pulled up a briefcase. Opening it, he pulled out two small envelopes. "These arrived two days ago, and they're the only commitments I've made for the trip."

"What are they?" asked Katrina, as Stasia said, "Where are they?"

"They're tickets," he said to Katrina, and to Stasia he said, "Cruxshadows, in St. Louis, and Opening Day at Fenway Park." He grinned. "Time I took you out to a ballgame."
CHAPTER 18

Washington, DC

April 6

A car and driver was waiting for them at Dulles when they arrived, courtesy of OSOL. "Mr. Jenkins?" asked the driver, an athletically built man with close cropped hair. To Mike, he screamed, "Marine!" but he was cautious, nonetheless.

"ID?" he asked in reply. Wordlessly, the maybe-Marine reached into a pocket and pulled out a Pentagon ID card. "Major Hughes, then?" Mike was pleased to see that he was Corps.

"Yes, sir. May I see your passport?" Mike had anticipated the request and already had it in hand. A cursory glance satisfied the major. "Very good. Colonel Pierson sends his regrets, but he said you would understand. I am assigned to you for the duration of your stay here."

"It'll be nice to have a guide in DC," Mike said.

"No, sir," explained Hughes. "Your stay in the States." He elaborated, "It was felt that you should have a secure, personal conduit to OSOL during your visit. Besides," he added, smiling, "I could use some time out of the rabbit warren."

"I think we'll get along. I'm Mike," reaching out to shake hands.

"Jack," came the reply, with a firm grip. "And the ladies are Miss Rakovich and Miss Devlich?"

"Anastasia and Katrina, yes," Mike answered, gesturing. "Captain Hardesty?" he called, turning.

"Sir?"

"We should be here for at least a day, probably two. You and the crew all set?"

"Yes, sir, we have reservations at the Hilton. One crew will be on call at all times."

"That shouldn't be necessary -" Mike began.

"Sir." The quiet note in Hardesty's voice was clear, and Mike chuckled.

" - But it's appreciated," he finished. "We'll call before we're ready to go."

"We'll have her ready for departure." With that, Hardesty returned to the plane, and Mike back to Hughes.

"Well, Jack, we're set here when you are."

"Luggage?" Mike was carrying two medium-sized bags, while Katrina and Stasia only had shoulder bags.

"This is it for now."

"Is the rest arriving later?" Hughes asked, confused.

"You could say that," Mike said. "They're going shopping."

"Oh."

He'd have sworn that the Marine's eyes had shown a flash of compassionate pain.

"You should be the perfect escort."

=============================

They were staying at the Hay-Adams Hotel, across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House. Mike would have preferred a more anonymous location if traveling alone, but he was determined to make this trip as pleasant, and memorable, for his ladies as possible. Hence, the Hay-Adams.

Built on the site of the former homes of John Hay and Henry Adams, two well-known nineteenth-century Washington residents, the hotel bragged that it had the "second-best address in Washington." A classic Italian Renaissance-style building, the building was nearly as iconic as the House across the street. Stasia appreciated the details as they passed through the lobby to their suite, pointing out Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian columns, and elaborate Tudor, Elizabethan and Italian ceiling motifs. Katrina, for her part, was simply speechless.

Their room overlooked Lafayette Square and the White House. Katrina rushed over to the windows, asking, "That is where the President lives, yes?"

"Yes, it is. And don't get any ideas," growled Mike. Katrina muttered something inaudible under her breath as he continued. "Haven't met this one. Doubt I will; don't think we exactly see eye-to-eye. But you never know." He looked around the well-appointed - no, positively sybaritic - room. "I think this will do while we're here," he joked, "Though it is a little plain."

Anastasia's throw pillow lived up to its name.

Mike ducked the follow-up and dashed across the suite. "I've got to make some phone calls," he called, standing in a bedroom door. "Let me know when you're done." He shut the door quickly.

=============================

"Office of Strategic Operations Liaison, Colonel Pierson speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Bob, Mike Jenkins. Unsecure."

"Ah, right."

"Met with Jack. Wondering if there's anything I can shake loose tomorrow or the next day?"

"Probably next day, I think. Lots of commitments, lots of research to do."

"Gotcha. We'll run by in the afternoon?"

"Works. Any plans tomorrow?"

"Sightseeing."

"Sightseeing?"

"Sightseeing."

"O-kay. Later then."

"Bye."

=============================

"Hughes."

"Jenkins."

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow, around town. Day after, back to the rabbit warren."

"Suits."

=============================

"Zzzzzzzz...mmph!"

"Good morning, sleepyhead." Katrina's weight rested comfortably on him, her smiling face inches away.

"Morning?"

"Not actually. It is five in the afternoon."

"You're done with the dress, I'm guessing?"

If anything, her smile grew wider. "It will be so beautiful! I can't wait for you to see it!"

"I can't wait to see you in it."

She blushed. "But now it is time for supper," she said, rolling off. "Come. You must shower." She pulled his arm until he followed her, standing slowly as his joints had started to lock up again.

"Oh, your knees! And Kurosawa's not here to give you your treatment! Stasia told me about them. Maybe he can teach me his tricks with the needles!" she said excitedly. "I'll go ahead and start the water, get it good and hot for you. You put your clothes over there." Katrina walked off before he could protest. Sometimes you just have to roll with it, he thought, and shucked off his travel-worn clothing, tossing them to the side.

"Avert your eyes," he said, opening the bathroom and releasing a cloud of steam.

Again, he felt her body against his, but for the first time, it was only her. "Katrina!" he snapped. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Taking care of you!" she retorted. "How am I to wash you in my clothes?" she added, with impeccable logic. "Now. Into the shower!"

Mike allowed her to wash him; in truth, he didn't take much convincing. It was all he could do not to stare at the girl - no, woman, he corrected himself - who would soon be his bride. As she lathered the soap onto his body, he asked, "So why the fuss? I didn't plan anything formal for dinner."

"Stasia did," was all she would answer. After he was towel dried, Katrina left to dress. He found his favorite Harrowgate suit laid out on the bed, so... Obviously, Stasia had something special in mind.

=============================

"Okay, Stasia, where are we -" He cut off mid-sentence when he caught sight of Katrina. "Where - when - how -"

The form-fitting green dress Katrina was wearing was NEVER a product of the valley. In fact, unless Mike was much mistaken, it wasn't even a product of a store. This dress had to have been hand-made by a very, very skilled seamstress. A single strap looped around her left shoulder, swooping down across her chest, dropping lower around her side and back, defining and highlighting every supple curve. Her hips were encased in the same shimmering green, a floor-length skirt dropping down, a slit rising along her right leg all the way up her thigh. Plainly, the work of an expert.

"Noemi provided the dress," spoke Stasia. "I had called her from home with Katrina's figure. I hoped she would have it ready in time."

Katrina was being surprisingly demure, looking to the floor, nothing like her usual brazen self. "Do you like it?" she asked softly.

"You are more beautiful than usual," he replied, stepping toward her and holding her. He cupped her chin and raised her head to look into her eyes. "And never look down; you have nothing, nothing to be ashamed of!" he insisted, kissing her.

"Now. Stasia, since you've organized this - what's for dinner?"

"Michael, you often complain that nobody in Georgia can cook a steak properly. So, we have reservations at the Capital Grille." She smiled. "I have heard they cook steak well."

=============================

Dinner was simply amazing. Wagyu beef carpaccio, seasoned perfectly, the beef so thin it was nearly translucent; a creamy lobster bisque; Katrina and Stasia each had a petite filet mignon, while Mike dove into a porcini-rubbed Delmonico that was so tender he put aside his knife; fresh seasonal vegetables; and a chocolate espresso cake, which Mike and Katrina took turns feeding each other. All accompanied by an ever-changing variety of wines, complementing each course.

Amelia Weston had joined them briefly.

"Katrina! Congratulations! Stasia told me the wonderful news!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Weston."

"Ah, I told you, call me Amelia."

"I forgot, Amelia."

"Is that one of Noemi's creations?"

"Yes, it is, and thank you for referring us to her," smoothly interjected Stasia.

"Isn't she simply amazing? And yet so few people know about her!"

They chatted for a few moments, Mike able to eat in peace, until Amelia turned to him and said, "Have you had a chance to talk with our new President again?"

"No, not directly," he answered. "Although I think that he's been well-informed of my supposed abilities."

"Ah," she said, dimpling. "Dinner didn't scare him away. Good for him!" A few more words, and she announced she would go. "Mustn't keep the General waiting too long!" And she swept away.

As they were preparing to leave, the maitre'd came over. "Mr. Jenkins, there is a phone call for you. If you'll follow me?" Instantly, Mike was alert. Nodding, he said in Keldaran Georgian, "Stasia, you have your phone?"

"Yes."

"Give me three minutes. If I'm not back, call Bob Pierson at OSOL, grab Katrina, and get the hell out of here."

"I understand, Kildar."

Katrina's eyes had gone wide with concern, but now flashed anger. "Michael!"

"Don't worry," he replied, still in Georgian. "Trust Stasia." He followed the waiting maitre'd to the front desk, where he indicated a phone in a quiet alcove. Mike thanked him and picked up the handset.

"Jenkins."

"Sorry to bother you at dinner," came Pierson's familiar voice. "I tried the hotel first. Hughes said you were at the Grille. Good steak?"

"Great, Bob, what the fuck is going on? I've got two women who are about to bolt if I don't get back pretty damned quick."

Pierson had the decency to sound contrite. "Sorry. DIA, NSA, CIA - basically the big five - will all have reps at the meet. Four o'clock. Anyone else you want there?"

"SecDef and SecState should have reps, too."

"Will do. See you."

Mike hung up and walked back to the table.

"Trouble?" asked Katrina.

"Just business," answered Mike, the mood broken. "It's late. Let's head back."

=============================

Goodnights had been said, the women retiring to the other bedroom - "It is the only way I can properly chaperone you," explained Stasia with a laugh - and Mike was stretched out on his bed. The door to his bedroom quietly opened, and a figure crept in.

"Stasia?"

A giggle. "Wrong answer, Michael," laughed Katrina, abandoning her attempt at stealth. "I know it is wrong, but I wished to be with you tonight."

"Katrina -" he said, warningly.

"Not that way," she clarified. "Your damned promise! No, I only wish to stay with you," climbing into the bed. She wasn't wearing anything. "May I stay here tonight?"

Resist? Resist.

Resist.

Resist.

Dammit.

"Of course." She cuddled into his arm, laid her head on his shoulder, and draped her arm across his chest.

I can get used to this, he thought as he fell asleep faster than he thought possible.
CHAPTER 19

Somewhere in Chechnya; Moscow; The Caravanserai; Groznyy

April 6

"So, Ibrahim, how soon will we take our next steps?" Giku Inarov sounded impatient, and with good reason. Nearly five weeks had passed since the weapons had been acquired, nearly five weeks of work and toil, and it seemed they were no closer to dispatching them than when they started.

"Excellency, we are having great difficulty with the devices themselves. The weapons are well-crafted, and sturdy, but they have suffered from a lack of maintenance. We are having to replace many of the tritium triggers, as these have degraded most quickly. Your men work tirelessly, but it takes time to obtain sufficient supplies." And replace those sickened by radiation.

"And you did not anticipate this problem?" demanded Inarov. "It is imperative that our conquest of the Emirate begin as planned!"

"So it shall, Excellency, so it shall. All your teams are in place, secure in their assigned locations. They only await the weapons to proceed."

"How much longer, then?"

"I expect to receive sufficient tritium within two weeks to finish -"

"Unacceptable!" roared the Emir. "Allah has decreed the date to complete His work, and you shall not fail! The punishment for failure will be severe," he warned.

Ibrahim answered thoughtfully, "There is another possibility, Excellency, but one which I have been reluctant to explore."

"Will it be faster?"

"Yes, Excellency, but -"

"Then do it immediately!"

"Excellency, please, let me explain!" Ibrahim allowed a pleading note to enter his voice, satisfying the Emir's ego.

"Very well. You may explain."

"Thank you, Excellency. Each warhead contains a certain amount of tritium, all of which must be of sufficient quality to ensure detonation. However, not all of the tritium in each warhead is bad. We could take all the material, separate out the bad, and use the remainder to arm a few warheads, enough, perhaps, for our purposes." At the cost of how many more fatal cases of radiation sickness? Best use those least needed in the coming weeks. Most disposable. Yes.

"Why have you not done so?" boomed Inarov.

"As I said, Excellency, only some warheads will be made functional in this manner. All the remainder will be totally useless until their triggers are replaced. I regret to say, I do not know how much tritium this will yield, nor how many triggers we will be able to repair in this manner. We may have enough to work Allah's will; we may not."

"Allah shall provide, Ibrahim. Do not let your faith waver."

"Yes, Excellency." He hesitated for a moment, then continued. "There is one other difficulty. Separating the 'good' tritium from the 'bad' tritium, while possible under these conditions, is dangerous to the men who perform the task. They will be exposed to radiation." Best to put the idea in his head, in case he has sources I don't know of who may try to undermine my position.

"How much?"

"Again, I regret that I do not know. Certainly, enough to make them sick for a while; possibly enough to kill them."

Inarov said, indifferently, "They shall be martyrs, no less than a man who dies in direct combat. Do it."

Ibrahim bowed. "At once, Excellency. Allah's work be done." And Schwenke left to give the necessary orders. Must not lose control. Must not lose control. Must not lose control...

The guards in the corridor, seeing the fury in Ibrahim's eyes, cleared out of the way, almost pitying the infidel who incurred such wrath.

============================

"Colonel?"

Chechnik turned to the speaker, a young Lieutenant.

"Yes, Andrei?"

"There have been some unusual purchases made near Chechnya."

He sighed. "Andrei, it is late. I have been here all day, and I am tired. A little more detail would be nice."

"Sorry, Colonel. Let me show you." He moved to a computer and called up a map of the Caucasus, with several cities highlighted. "See? An arc, running from Roston-na-Donu, to Volgograd, to Astrachan, and some towns between."

"Very pretty, Lieutenant. What has been purchased?"

"Tritium, sir."

That got Chechnik's attention. "Tritium? How much?"

"Never more than a few grams at any one location, but, if these are all connected, there is nearly half a kilo being purchased." That much was enough for dozens of nuclear warheads.

"Have any orders been delivered yet?"

"No sir. All the sources have been complying with the Prime Minister's order to delay shipment as long as possible."

"Very good, Andrei! Let's see who comes to pick it up. Allow the largest single order to be completed; where is it?"

"Vsyo Khemik, in Volgograd. Twenty grams."

Chechnik nodded. "Ensure the shop is under constant observation, and a team is prepared to follow whoever retrieves it." He picked up a phone. "I need to pass this along."

"The General?"

"No, Andrei. The Kildar."

============================

Vanner hung up the phone. "We've got something!" he called to Stella.

"What is it?"

"Russian intel has picked up on a bunch of suspicious sales orders for tritium. Chechnik's sending us the data. He's also getting agents in place to track a single order back to the source."

"What if they lose the tango?"

"That's why I've gotten their communications freqs," replied Vanner. "We'll be able to listen in on everything they say. If they lose tracking, we may be able to take over the electronic end. Besides, you still have the overrides that Mouse hacked out of the NSA." He grinned. "We may just have caught our first break."

"Do we tell the Kildar?"

"Not yet. Not until we have something more solid."

"Pat?" Grez spoke up.

"Yeah?"

"Look at the hits," she said, pointing to the map. "See that?"

"You think?"

"Possibly. It wouldn't hurt to check." Stella was looking on in confusion at the verbal shorthand, so Grez explained. "All the data points, when taken together, describe an arc. It's possible that they are all a similar distance from the source of the orders."

"I see it now. And that source could be in northern Chechnya, wouldn't it?"

"Bingo," said Vanner. "We'll still wait on the agents' track, but I think we need to get some assets on the ground in that area. Contact J on his encrypted link and let him know. Time for Cottontail to hit the road. Hippety-hop," he said with a smile.

============================

"I hate this," bitched Katya.

They had just gotten the request to move again, this time to the city of Elista.

"There are many things an agent must tolerate," reminded J. "Sudden movement is but one of them."

"I know," she replied, still grumpy. "I wish they would make up their minds, though! It takes time to move, time to build a cover, time to learn the city, time which we never have!"

"All the penalty we incur for having controls. The Kildar has better than most, though. They have a point, a purpose, in asking us to transfer our operations, unlike too many I can recall."

"And what is that purpose? They don't share, just tell!"

"Child, remember what I taught you about need-to-know."

"If I don't know it, I can't reveal it," she parroted back.

"Ah, you do remember. Good." J looked around the small flat that had served as their base. "I see nothing remaining. Ready?"

Katya picked up her battered bag. "Ready."

"Review."

"Destination or travel?"

"Both."

"Elista is a city of one hundred thousand and capital of the Republic of Kalmykia. It is currently experiencing considerable reconstruction, courtesy of the President of the Republic, Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, so imported workers, even tourists, are fairly common. I leave first and take the fourteen-eleven bus. You will follow on the seventeen-forty. I will wait for you inside the Golden Temple, the Buddhist temple outside the city."

"Very good. Safe travel, padawan."

CHAPTER 20

Washington, DC

April 7

In the end, they took the Metro.

Neither Katrina or Stasia had ever ridden a subway, Mike rationalized. Plus, it kept them more anonymous than being chauffeured around DC in a government-tagged SUV. He bought SmarTrip cards for each, showed them how to use them, and then led them into Farragut West, Major Hughes in tow.

Katrina was amazed. Trains, she was a little familiar with. But the sleek Metro trains, windows showing the crowded passengers, whooshing to a stop at the platform - these were totally beyond her ken.

Stasia was terrified. She clutched Mike's arm fiercely, trusting him to guide her through what seemed to her an endless sea of humanity. The enclosed, underground nature of the station helped her somewhat, though.

"This is how many people get back and forth to work in DC," Mike explained in Georgian as they moved to find a place in the car. "Katrina, grab that pole and brace yourself," he instructed. "Stasia, you hold on to me, I'll keep us upright." The train started with a slight lurch, sending Katrina bouncing off Mike. "Whoa! Hold on, there!" Soon enough, Katrina was shifting easily with the movement of the train. "How far are we going?" she asked.

"Only a couple stops. I thought we'd start at the Mall."

"But I don't want to go shopping!"

Mike just smiled.

==============================

"This is the Mall." Mike had led them out the Metro exit up into the National Mall. Ahead of them were the Natural History and American History Museums. To the right, the Castle of the Smithsonian. And to their left, the brilliant white obelisk of the Washington Monument gleamed in the spring sunshine. "Ladies, shall we walk?" Taking one on each arm, he turned to the west and the Monument.

"What is that?"

"That is the Washington Monument, erected to honor the memory of one of my country's founding fathers. He was -"

"I know, he chopped down the cherry tree!"

Mike had to laugh. "That's one of the stories about him, yeah. Not true, maybe, but a good story. He was the military leader who led the American colonies in their revolution against Britain. Later, he was elected our first President. 'First in war, first in peace, first in the hearts of his countrymen.'" He grinned. "Want to go up?"

"We can go in? Up? There?"

"Yep. Great view."

Major Hughes cleared his throat. "I don't know if we can get in just yet. I don't think they open until nine."

Mike looked at him. "You mean to say nothing could be arranged?"

"Well..."

"Would it help if you said that I asked?"

"Probably."

"So I'm asking."

"Give me a minute." Sure enough, a few quick whispered conversations on his secure cellphone later, Jack was walking with them toward the underground entrance. They didn't linger, but rather were directed quickly by a National Park Ranger to the elevator, taking a quick glance at the bas relief of Washington mounted above the door. The Ranger was polite - it was DC, and she was used to giving VIPs access at odd times , though perhaps with a little more notice than today. She'd been ordered to let them in; she did so. Orders didn't say anything about babysitting them. That probably explained why she wasn't as verbose as Rangers tended to be.

"How high are we going?" asked Stasia as the door slid shut.

"The Monument is five hundred fifty-five feet tall - about a hundred seventy meters. I don't know how close to the top we'll actually be, but it's at least five hundred," answered Mike.

"Is it safe?" she asked nervously.

"Safe as houses," answered Jack. "Don't worry about a thing. I've been up here dozens of times in all kinds of weather, and it's just like being on the ground."

"With a better view," added Mike.

The elevator stopped, the door opened, and they stepped into a small, stone-walled room. Four small pairs of windows, one on each steeply sloped wall, let in light. Another Park Ranger smiled as they looked around. "We open to the public in an hour, so take your time," he said, and walked to a discreet distance from them and took his station. Katrina dashed to the closest set, trailed by the others.

"What is that?" she said, pointing.

Mike peered over her shoulder and answered. "We're looking north, here. The large green circle is the Ellipse, then the White House, flanked by the Treasury and - what's to the left?"

The Ranger replied, "The Executive Office Building. Not many people know that one."

"Thanks. Then, we have Lafayette Square and our hotel a little further on."

She rushed off to the right. "That's the Capitol!" she exclaimed.

"Exactly," said the Ranger.

"Bunch of Congresscritters," added Mike. The Ranger shrugged. "The Smithsonian is off to the right, over there. And somewhere off to the left is the National Archives building. That's where the original copies of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights are kept. We'll take a walk over there later today."

"Okay!" she said, and off she went again to the south windows.

"Jefferson Memorial across the Tidal Basin," he said before she could ask.

"What are the flowers? They look like the ones around the Monument," she asked instead. Mike looked out with her. The Tidal Basin was ringed with trees bearing thousands of pale pink flowers.

The Ranger came to his rescue again. "It's the Cherry Blossoms, miss. Sakuras." Her face must have shown confusion, because he added, "It's an annual spring event in Washington. The cherry trees, which were a gift from Japan to the United States in the nineteenth century, bloom, reminding us of the enduring friendship between our two countries." It was obviously a question he was used to answering.

"We will go see them, yes Michael?" Mike didn't think that refusing would be wise; from Stasia's look, she agreed.

"Of course we can." He walked to the final windows. "Take a look over here," he called.

Before them stretched the Reflecting Pool, from the new World War II Memorial at the near end to the Lincoln Memorial at the opposite. "From this monument to the first great President we can see down to the memorial for another great man, Abraham Lincoln. He's the one who defended the Union when the easy course would have been to let it fracture. He's the one who truly forged a single nation instead of a multitude of small ones. He's the one who made this country worth defending, proving it was an ideal worthy of sacrifice."

He abruptly cut off, as if feeling he had revealed too much. He heard again the lyrics, resonating in his ears, reminding him of too many close calls. Syria. The nameless key in the Bahamas. Paris. Forcing a smile, he began, "Let's get moving, ladies. We've interfered with the routine enough, I'm sure."

==============================

"I'm beat," said Mike, hours later.

They saw the cherry blossoms, or Sakuras, as they were called in Japan. Stasia and Katrina were enraptured, strolling through the white and pink flowers. Stasia took photos - lots of photos. Photos of Mike. Photos of Katrina. Photos of Mike and Katrina. Photos of flowers. Photos of Mike didn't know what else.

A fair walk along the bank of the Potomac brought them down to the Lincoln Memorial. They lingered for a while, hushed, letting Mike stand at the statue's feet, wrapped in his own thoughts. Mercifully, Stasia kept her photography quiet.

They walked along the Reflecting Pool, past the Monument, to the Smithsonian. There, they spent the bulk of the day poking into 'America's Attic.' Lunch was bits and pieces gathered along the way.

Mike had suggested a regular lunch, but Stasia had protested, saying that she had planned a proper dinner for them, and not to eat too much. He did persuade them to steer clear of the hot dog carts, though. Time enough for that at the ballgame. That was the proper order of things. By the time they emerged from Air & Space, thoroughly impressed, it was nearly five, and Stasia was impatient to return. The Archives would have to wait.

Tonight, Katrina wasn't around to help him shower. Stasia was, though, and her ministrations certainly took off the edge the other minx had caused the previous night in the shower and, later, in bed. God - he felt like the walking poster boy for blue balls.

When asked about Katrina, all Stasia would reply was, "She had to prepare," and said nothing more. Eventually they were both dressed, well, but not as elaborately as the previous night, and left the suite. "Katrina?" he asked, but she just guided him downstairs to the hotel restaurant without a word. There, the maitre'd led them to a private dining room. A table was set for two. Stasia stopped at the door, saying, "She awaits, Michael." And she turned away, a sad smile on her face, unshed tears in her eyes.

Mike sat down at the elaborately set table. A figure appeared at the door; he half rose before he realized it was simply a waiter, bearing a glass of scotch. Elijah Craig, as it happened. He'd had plenty of time to learn the subtle difference in various types of scotch. Bridgewater, the British half of his new pair of batmen, had refined his education, being even more of a whiskey connoisseur. He'd taught him the subtleties, how the blends could enhance each other's qualities, how single malts could vary from region to region - it had truly been eye-opening.

Sipping the Craig, he waited a few more moments and another figure appeared. He rose again; this time it was Katrina, dressed in - kitchen whites?

"Are you ready for dinner, Kildar?" she asked formally.

"Will you be joining me?"

"Soon enough. Are you ready?"

"Yes, please."

Katrina disappeared, only to return moments later with a salad. Simple, green salad, fresh vegetables, a vinaigrette. Nice. Nothing special, but nice. He didn't say so, of course. He knew better.

The next course was trout almondine, a dish he had never had before. The sauce was a lemon butter, and golden toasted almonds surrounded the fish. He cleaned his plate.

Third was a common Georgian dish called mtsvadi, a kebab. This one, when he tried it, was perfectly seasoned beef. He could taste the delicate flavor of the grape vines that it was usually cooked over and wondered where she had gotten them in DC.

Fourth was khinkali, a Georgian dish Mike had tried a few times out of politeness. It was a dumpling, filled with a peppered mix of beef and pork. Mike liked spicy foods, but the spice in these tended to be, well, boring. He cut a piece of the onion-shaped pastry, dipped it in the yellowish sauce, and bit. Instead of doughy, peppery beef, he tasted lamb, and ginger, and - yep! - she had a ponzu sauce for dipping. Eagerly, he finished the khinkali, and waited for the next course.

It wasn't long in coming. Katrina brought this final course in herself, laying the platter on the table before him. Arranged in a star pattern on the plate were the diamond-shaped pastry called gozinakh. Made simply of honey, sugar, and chopped nuts, it was a particular favorite of his, very similar to baklava, but rarely seen around the caravanserai. Although the Keldara made the best beer on the planet, they didn't, as a rule, have much of a sweet tooth. It was only on his rare trips into Tbilisi that Mike was able to enjoy this treat.

He realized Katrina was still standing by the table.

"Have you enjoyed your meal, Kildar?"

"Wonderful! Did you cook it all?"

"Most," she answered, sitting. "I didn't make the salad, but I was told that it was a usual thing to start an American meal?"

"It is, but this was hardly an American meal! Mtsvadi, khinkali, gozinakh - only the trout was 'American' in any sense. How did you learn how to cook trout, anyway?"

"I found a recipe on the Web," she answered, laughing. "So. Am I able to cook?"

He answered her with a question. "Who taught you? Was it Mother Savina? Or Griffina?"

"Both," she confessed. "Have you tried the gozinakh yet? I've only made that once."

"I'm sure it's delicious," he said, lifting a piece and taking a bite. "It is!" he exclaimed around a mouthful.

She relaxed further. "I was only able to make it once," she admitted. "Neither Mother makes it well, I think." She took a bite of her own piece.

A few minutes later, Mike said, "Thanks for the dinner, Katrina, but why? Wouldn't it have been easier to do this at the serai? It must've been tough getting grape vines, not to mention finding time to plan and execute all this."

"Stasia helped plan. You told Daria to make reservations here; Stasia called after and talked to Chef Medroun. He agreed to let me use part of his kitchen, and he acquired all the ingredients. I came down for a bit yesterday, while you napped, and did some preparation. The rest I did today, after our day out." She dimpled. "I'm so happy you liked it!"

"You dodged the question, Kat. Why?"

"Cat? Why are you calling me an animal?"

"No, no, not cat meow. Kat, the first part of your name, Katrina. It's a pet name, a familiar name, a name that nobody else calls you. Your family calls you Trina, so I'll call you Kat."

"A name? For me? Only for me?"

"Yep. You like it?" Her glowing smile was answer enough. "Still dodging, Kat. Why?"

"All the girls heard of what you did during the Rite," she began. "You cooked a meal for the girl with you. We heard, too, why you did it, because it was part of courtship in America, part of 'dating.' I thought that, since we are here to 'get to know each other,' that I should cook something for you. Call it part of the Rite of the Kildaran."

"And what else is part of this Rite?" he asked teasingly.

She looked down, blushing. "You'll find out soon enough."
CHAPTER 21

The Cave; Elista, Russia; Moscow

April 7

"Any word yet?"

"No. Chechnik told us that the 'order fulfilled' email went out yesterday -"

"Confirmation?"

"Yes. It was intercepted, but they couldn't track it all the way back to a source. Last confirmed hit was a server in Indonesia, and it was rerouted from there."

"So, something went out. Wonder when we'll see any action?"

Grez wondered too but didn't say so. "As soon as they move, we'll know."

=============================

Akilah bint Najat, called by her Russian neighbors Akeela Najatova, was not, strictly speaking, part of the Chechen rebellion. She wasn't even a particularly devout Muslim, her family being far too Russified to return to generations-old practices. She occasionally attended service at the mosque, not with any regularity or enthusiasm. She knew, too, that her family wasn't seen in a particularly good light by the more intense Muslims in her neighborhood. It didn't bother her. She had a good job as a teacher; she had her own apartment; any day, she expected her boyfriend to ask to marry her.

A few of the neighborhood boys had gone off to fight for the Chechens in their ill-fated rebellions. Nobody talked about them much. Old, weathered posters warned against helping the rebels. It made sense a few years ago, she supposed, when it seemed the news was full of bombs exploding and men fighting. That was the past, though. Ancient history, almost. When she was offered a thousand rubles for running an errand, well, she didn't see the harm. It was enough for that month's rent, after all. And she knew the guy who asked her, at least slightly, from the mosque. Her boyfriend, in the car with her, hadn't objected, so what could happen?

The packet she picked up was securely wrapped. She couldn't begin to guess at its contents, but she put it in the back of the Lada Kalina so she wouldn't have to hold it on the drive out of town.

=============================

"Target is moving."

"Understood. Follow and report."

=============================

The meeting place was thirty kilometers from town. It took Osip nearly an hour to navigate the badly maintained roads. They were forced to detour around a flooded bridge, adding two kilometers to the route and, incidentally, losing the Russians that were trailing them. Finally, they arrived at an old house, set off the road a few hundred meters. He shut off the engine and was presently approached by a group of five men, three carrying guns at the ready.

"Who is this?" demanded the leader.

Akilah lowered her window. "He's my boyfriend, Osip Mandelstam. It's his car. How else was I to deliver your package, Abdul Hakim?"

"Where is the package?" said Abdul Hakim, more mildly.

She twisted around to the back. "Right here." She held it up for him to see. "And the rest of my money?"

"We have it in the house," he answered, gesturing to the others. They lowered their guns. "Come, we'll get it."

=============================

"Target lost."

"How?"

"There was a detour, Petya took the wrong turning. When we changed direction, they were gone."

The controller growled, "Do you have any idea what will happen to you if you don't recover the target?"

"I understand." The team leader shivered; Siberia was cold. "We'll reacquire them."

"We'll dispatch teams to possible target locations. Out."

=============================

Stella walked into Vanner's office - a closet at one point, it had the benefit of a door, and just enough space for two chairs and a few shelves on the wall. His monitor was the only moving object in the room; it was on a telescoping, swiveling arm, so he could adjust it to any position he needed.

"Let me guess. Lost 'em."

"The Russians, yes. Us -"

"Not so much. What do we have?"

She sat, took the keyboard from his hands, and typed quickly. "We are receiving a live feed from an American reconnaissance satellite. It will be in proper orbit for another twenty minutes, then there's an hour gap before the next one can be re-tasked for coverage." While she talked, a picture of the house and the car popped up on the screen. "This is a visible light only image-capable satellite. The follow-on has infrared capabilities, though we're not supposed to know that. You can thank Mouse when she comes back."

"Options?"

"Not much. We can send Cottontail to examine the site, but she can't possibly get there in less than an hour either."

"No, ask J instead. She has good instincts, but he has the experience. What else?"

"We have the cell phone numbers of the two couriers. If either one makes a call, we can pick it up."

"GPS?"

"No. These phones are old by American standards. There aren't enough towers in the area to tap for triangulation, either."

"Do what you can. Make sure Pavel's team is kept in the loop."

=============================

The bodies were dragged further into the house. As Abdul Hakim dropped Akilah's body atop her infidel boyfriend's, he spit on her. "Whore."

They had thought themselves so clever, coming together. When Abdul Hakim's men lowered their weapons, they had relaxed their guard further, easily agreeing to come to the house. What they couldn't know was there was a pair of warriors hidden just inside the door, knives ready. They jumped as soon as Akilah cleared the door, driving a knife to the hilt between her breasts. Her eyes widened in shock and she collapsed to the floor. Osip was warned slightly by her fall, but he couldn't react quickly enough. The other knife was in his gut and turning, twisting, before being viciously yanked out. He fell forward, grabbing at the man who stabbed him and bringing him to the ground with him. Akilah was gasping, tugging at the knife in her chest, and he fell near her, one hand over his own wound and the other clutching his assailant's knife hand. Adrenalin surged, briefly burning away the pain, and he managed to drive the knife backward. He heard voices shouting behind him but couldn't make out the words over the pounding of his heart in his ears. Shots rang out, driving through both him and the attacker, and they both dropped, limp, to the floor.

"Do you see what happens to unbelievers, bitch?" whispered Abdul Hakim harshly, holding her hair so she could see Osip's body. "He shall serve me in Paradise. So shall you, whore. Too busy to believe, to listen to the words of the Prophet. Where is your school now? Where is your apartment? I shall have glory in Paradise for working the will of Allah on Earth. You? You shall have nothing!" Her eyes glazed, her breathing stopped, her hands fell to her sides. He dropped her head and stood. "Drag this garbage inside."

"And Farraj?"

"He is a martyr to Allah. We'll burn this building to the ground with the bodies inside."

The house was liberally doused with kerosene, and a flare tossed in the open door, igniting it immediately. In seconds, the first room was entirely ablaze and spreading quickly.

Abdul Hakim, his men, and the package were piled into a pair of older Ladas and drove sedately away.

=============================

"There's not much left." J was calling in to the Intel office, talking to Greznya. "A full forensics team might be able to do something, but not for a while. It's still burning away. I can't get too close to it. The boyfriend's car is still here, which suggests they were either fully involved and left together, or -" He didn't have to finish the sentence. "No sign that they were forced out of the car, no sign of the package they received either."

"What is your next move?"

"I'll try to get a copy of the police report, when and if one is written. Law enforcement is a little sketchy out here, which is good and bad. And Katya is searching the girl's apartment now. I'll have that for the next check. I should clear out, though. Sooner or later, someone's going to notice this."

"Understood, J." She hung up, turning to the satellite view. It showed the hugely bright spot of the burning house and the road leading away.

"I can't believe we missed them completely!" muttered Vanner.

"Maybe not," replied Grez, staring at the image. "Stella, can we enhance this any here?"

"Some."

"Bring up the resolution on the road."

"There's nothing on it," she objected, but the image shifted to zoom in on the roadway.

"Can you increase the differential in colors?"

"How do you mean, Grez?"

Vanner came over. "I think I know what she's going for. Stella, what she wants is, can we focus down on a narrow range of temperatures, then make those smaller differences stand out? Instead of changing color for every ten degrees, say, can we have a shift for every degree?" As Stella began entering the programming, he turned to Grez. "Tire tracks?"

"Exactly," she agreed. "The tires will be warmer than the road surface. The satellite should be able to pick them up."

"What if there have been other cars on that road since the tangoes left?"

"From what J said, the fire is still burning. That suggests that nobody has driven past it since it was set or perhaps only very recently, since no fire response units are on scene yet. Even if cars have gone by, we may still be able to pick out the proper tracks."

"How?"

"The drive leading to the building. The tracks on that roadway could only have been made by the target car, or cars. That gives a baseline for us to compare the main road. We can disregard any tracks that don't match -"

" - because they'll be warmer and show up a different temperature! Genius! I married a genius, Stella, did you know that?"

"Yes." The scene had shifted to the road and drive and, sure enough, there were faint blue tracks running from the house and turning south down the road. The only other tracks were comparatively hot, from the north, stopping at the end of the drive - J's car. "That's them!" crowed Vanner. "How far can we follow them?"

"Working on it. If the All-Father smiles on us, we may have gotten the car in view before it leaves the range."

=============================

Bzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzt. Bzz -

"This had better be important or you will be bound for duty cleaning Chernobyl in the morning."

"Colonel, this is Lieutenant Senkovsky. The Kildar's people just called us."

Chechnik's heart stopped. "Yes?"

"They have located the shipment but are about to lose tracking and request that we resume following, but -"

His heartbeat again. "But what? Lieutenant, this is good news! What is the 'but'?"

"Sir. They said, quote, 'Don't fuck it up again,' unquote. Sir."
CHAPTER 22

Elista

April 7

The two Ladas were abandoned in Elista, keys in the ignition. It was a good-sized city, and two more nondescript cars wouldn't be noticed for days, if they weren't stolen in the meantime, further muddying the trail. Allah guarded his faithful. Abdul Hakim took the package of tritium and shoved it into a backpack, where it was buried among textbooks and notebooks filled with real notes from the local university. He would make his way out of town alone first, while the others would gradually follow in their own time.

The Russian agents following, who had managed not to lose them again, faced a difficult choice. There were only four agents on location at the moment, and the suspects had gone in six different directions upon leaving the cars. They split up, each agent following a group, assuming that they would be teamed up to provide better protection of the tritium. The two solo suspects were allowed to disappear.

Murphy struck the Russians again.

==============================

J was suitably disguised as a Russian Muslim. He had typically worn clothes and shoes with broken heels. He and Cottontail had listened to all the Russians SpecOps' transmissions, finally moving close enough to hear the conversation directly through a shotgun mike. The decision to follow groups left two to them. When they picked their targets, he drew a recent recruit and, he soon discovered, not a particularly committed one. His first stop was a bar, where he dropped three glasses of vodka in quick succession. J bought the fourth, striking up a conversation.

"You look like a man who really needs a drink," he started, laying down his money. "Bring him another, and the same for me," he said to the bartender. When the drinks arrived, J passed his hand quickly over one as he handed it over.

"I am. Thanks for the drink, uh -"

"Isra'il. My friends call me Isha," supplied J smoothly.

"Mika'il. Thanks." He knocked back this drink as quickly as the other three.

It didn't seem that he was going to offer any more, so J pressed a bit. "I've had a day like you wouldn't believe. Wake up this morning, late for work, the twice-damned supervisor docks me a half-day's pay - Half a day! And I was only ten minutes late! Then the lousy computer eats the rest of the report I was typing up, and I said I've had it! What is that fat prick going to do, dock the rest of the day? Let him, and Allah curse his bones!"

"Allah defend you, Isha, it does sound like you've had a bad day." Mika'il turned to look at him. "But mine's worse."

"Balls."

"Prophet's Beard, it's the truth." He looked around, lowered his voice. "I saw three people die today."

"Balls, I say! Unless you're a doctor, or police," and J looked him up and down, "And I doubt you are."

"No, I'm a student. I swear, I watched three people die - be killed, actually." Then he told J about the set-up, the surprise assault, the fire - assisted by J's little compound in his drink, of course.

"Where is this package now? It has to be pretty valuable."

"Priceless for Allah's tasks. I don't know exactly where, but Abdul Hakim took it with him."

"Alone? Isn't that taking a big risk?"

"For you, or me, maybe. But not for him. He planned it all." Mika'il shivered. "Ice water in his blood. No, it's safe with him."

J relaxed. Cottontail was trailing him. "One more drink, Mika'il, and I think it's time you go home." He got another drink, added another little supplement, and watched it be downed. "Come. Let's get you home." J helped steer him out of the bar and down the road. A very few blocks on, he was barely on his feet, leaning heavily on J, complaining of blurred vision and a sudden headache. "It's only the drink," laughed J. "Here, we'll stop for a moment," and he guided him into the half-sunken basement entry to a building. Mika'il collapsed into an almost-seated position, slumping forward, muttering. Quickly he quieted, then his breathing slowed, then stopped.

J left casually. One less loose end.

==============================

Katya didn't know where her target was going, exactly. She guessed that he was going to be headed out of the city, but she didn't know how, or where, or even when. She couldn't wait ahead of him on his route and try to pick him up, or allow herself to be picked up. She didn't think that she would be able to follow him unobserved the whole route; she was good, and getting better, but he was actually displaying some tactical sense and clearing his tail periodically. That left brazen. She could do brazen.

Walking on the other side of the road, she watched him enter a small park. This might be her best shot. She hurried across the road and closed the gap swiftly.

"You!" she called angrily, waving. "Ai! You!"

He turned and looked, pointing at himself.

"Yes, you miserable dick! What the fuck do you think you're doing, ignoring me?" she continued. "I've been following you for ten minutes, ever since I saw you! Why haven't you called me? Or come over? Or - oh, shit!" She stopped. She was only a few meters away. "You're not Nicolai!"

"No," he answered coldly. "I'm not." And he prepared to walk away.

She hurried over, putting a hand on his arm, holding him gently. "I'm so sorry! You look just like - from a distance - I didn't mean -" She allowed her voice to trail off, dropping her eyes as he stared at her. "I beg your pardon. I meant no offence."

"He must be a fool to leave you behind," he said, appeased by her apparent modesty. "What's your name?"

"Kamilah."

"I am Abdul Hamid, and you are very beautiful. I would like to know you better, Kamilah."

"I - I - I don't know what to say. I'm so embarrassed," she replied. "I'm not usually like this. He seemed so nice, so kind, and then he - !"

"I would walk you home," he said, "and you can tell me of this Nicolai."

"Oh! That's not - I mean, you don't have to!"

"You need someone to walk you home to keep you from chasing down every man on the street." He took her arm in his firmly. "Now, lead."

She hadn't counted on this jerk wanting to walk her home, for fuck's sake! Where was she going to take him? They'd rented a flat, and it was minimally furnished, but there's no way anyone would believe she'd lived there for long. And what if J showed up? He could play Nicolai, she supposed, but she'd have to get hold of him somehow before then. Fuck! The black box was in the flat! They'd arrived ahead of their Keldara backups, so she couldn't even call for support! Well, then, it was time to fake it.

"Yes," is all she said, as she walked along the street.

==============================

She spun "Kamilah's" story out of whole cloth, feigning reluctance and hesitation to keep him interested and inquisitive. By the time they reached the flat, he acted ready to kill the evil Nicolai who took advantage of the poor, naïve, innocent girl.

She stopped at the door to the block of flats. "Thank you for walking me home," she said, shyly.

"It was my duty to see you safely home," he replied gravely. "But I worry that Nicolai will be waiting for you in your flat. I should come up with you."

"No," she protested, "It is not proper. I've learned that, if nothing else." She pretended to have an inspiration and pulled out her mobile. "I know! I will call my brother; he lives nearby. He can check the flat for me." Before he could object, she had dialed J. "Hello, Ivan? It's Kamilah. I'm at the flat, but I'm worried about Nicolai being there. Could you come over? No, I don't really think he'll be there, but Abdul Hamid does. He's my new friend. I'll tell you all about him when you get here. See you shortly, then. Bye!" She hung up.

"He'll be here in a couple minutes." Time to hook this fish. "Perhaps we could meet later?"

"I would like that, if your brother does not object."

"He won't. Can I call you later? We'll talk, figure out where to meet." He gave her his mobile number, and she returned it with her sunniest smile. "Thank you so much!" She giggled nervously. "You're nothing like Nicolai."

"I hope not." He looked around. "I should wait until your brother arrives."

Damn. "Of course!" She leaned against the doorpost, hoping that J would interpret the play correctly.

J strode around the corner just a few moments later. "Ivan!" she called.

"Kamilah! And this must be your friend," he said, closing the distance and holding out his hand. "Thank you for watching over my little sister. I hope she wasn't any trouble?" he said as he shook hands, clapping his left hand against Abdul Hamid's shoulder.

"None at all," he said, then suddenly his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground.

"What did you?" said Katya. "I just needed an excuse to ditch him outside. I couldn't bring him up to the flat!"

"He has the tritium. He knows the next link in the chain," answered J, taking his shoulders. "Now help me get him inside!"

Between them they got his unconscious body upstairs to the flat. Dumping him unceremoniously on the floor, Katya said, "Now what? When he wakes, he'll wonder too much, have too many questions."

"Heed no fear, O student." J went to his supplies and rummaged briefly, coming out with a syringe and a bottle of brownish liquid. "I had Dr. Arensky make this for me before we left. It's based on the waste of the L. acidophilus bacteria, he said, but very, very effective. One dose and your friend here will tell us everything we need to know and remember none of it."

"And what do we do with him afterward, O Master?" asked Katya sarcastically.

"That depends on what information he gives us," answered J, and said nothing more.

In very little time their prisoner was seemingly awake and answering questions.

"You have the tritium?"

"I don't know."

"The package that was picked up today. Do you have it?"

"Yes. In my backpack."

J picked up the pack and looked through. "Is this it?" he asked, holding up a small, heavy parcel, wrapped in butcher's paper and tied with string.

"Yes."

"Who is it for?"

"I don't know."

"Fuck!" interjected Katya.

"Quiet!" hissed J. "He is in a very suggestive state right now." Returning to a normal voice, he asked, "What are you to do with the tritium?"

"I am to bring it to a man in Utta, tomorrow."

"Where are you meeting him?"

"A café, the Wandering Wolf."

"When?"

"I am to be there by two. He will meet me between then and four."

"Do you know him?"

"No."

"Does he know you?"

"I don't know."

"How will you know him?"

"He will walk to my table and ask to borrow the salt and the adzhika. I am to give him the salt and say that I do not like adzhika."

"And then what?"

"He will sit down. I am to pass him the package, and he will get up and leave. After I finish, I will leave as well and come home to wait."

"Wait for what?"

"Further instructions."

J stepped away, gesturing for Katya to follow. When he judged they were out of earshot, he spoke. "Amateurish. But we can use this."

"How?"

"I become Abdul Hamid. Plus a few other little tricks." He walked back to the uninterested courier. "Would you like to do the honors?"

Katya grinned wolfishly.

==============================

After moving the body, J examined the parcel more closely, taking the plain wrapper and string off carefully, revealing a heavy box of a gray, slightly lustrous metal.

"Is that the tritium?" asked Katya.

"No. If I had to guess, I'd say this is lead. Tritium is radioactive, you know."

"Should we be this close then?"

"We should be safe, especially if this is lead." He put the box down. "I don't think I'll open it to check, though."

"What is your plan? What do you need me to do?"

"I'm going to make the meet tomorrow in Utta. You're going to track us on this," he said, pulling out what looked like a mobile phone.

"How?"

"Vanner gave me a number of these transmitters," and he pulled out a plastic bag with a half-dozen small black discs scattered along the bottom seam. "They're RFID homing bugs. If we're within a mile with the base unit, each one will beam a signal back."

"How will we conceal it? We can't put it inside, can we?"

"No, the lead will block the signal. The tritium is mixed with uranium, making a compound called uranium tritide, and would destroy the bug in short order as well. I think we'll try two, one on the inside of the wrapper, and one on the bottom of the box. Even when the wrap is thrown away, we might be able to track the other."

"We need to stay close, then."

J nodded. "How's your driving?"

CHAPTER 23

Washington, DC

April 8

Mike awoke with Katrina in his arms again. I really could get used to this.

After lingering for hours in the restaurant, they had come back to the suite. Stasia had left a note, claiming a headache. Mike smelled set-up but said nothing. They talked for a while longer then, joints protesting, Mike stood to get ready for bed. Without a word, without seeking permission, Katrina followed him to the bedroom, grabbed something out of a dresser drawer, and ducked into the bath. Curious, he opened the dresser. Her clothes? Yep. Her clothes. So where were his? Next drawer down, of course.

She emerged in a sheer black silk nightgown and climbed right into the bed. Amused, he did his ablutions and followed. "Hitch over," he said. "You're on my side." She slid over under the covers. Wondering how far she would take it, Mike lay up next to her, arm over her, hand cupped just below her exquisite breasts. "Night," he said, and "Goodnight," she replied.

And that's all. She snuggled into his arm and, within minutes, was sound asleep. He lay there, bemused, for a few minutes before allowing sleep to overtake him, as well.

===============================

"Off to the Archives today," he announced over breakfast in the suite. "Then, where do you want to go?"

Stasia voted for the Natural History museum, while Katrina wanted to go out to the Udvar-Hazy Center, part of Air and Space. "I want to see the shuttle," she said.

"So do I," admitted Mike. "Stasia, would you mind if Jack sticks with you today?"

"I'd rather be with you, Michael. But Major Hughes seems competent enough." She dimpled.

Ignoring it, he said, "That's settled, then. Figure we'll meet back here at 3." He rose. "But first, the Archives."

===============================

Fortunately, it was another beautiful day, and most of the other tourists were busy with the cherry blossoms and other outdoor displays. The National Archives seemed deserted, and they were able to linger over the documents for quite some time.

Mike resisted the urge to lecture. Rather, he allowed the women to look where they would, examine and experience what he knew was the heart and soul of his country, no matter how misinterpreted that vision might be. He couldn't accept the liberal weenies who had co-opted so much of the vision of men like Jefferson, Madison, and Monroe. It was ironic, he reflected, no matter how wrong-headed they were, no matter how he loathed the politically correct bullshit so many of them spewed, he was oath-bound to protect those very freedoms on their behalf. He wondered if he could ever return to the States permanently. Not without a political enema, he decided.

After a while Katrina came over and took his hand.

"These are important to you," she asked.

"Yes," he said simply, then relented. "They're what this country is all about. They're about standing up for what you know is right, no matter what the cost. They're about allowing the maximum freedom for the most people, with the fewest restrictions imposed, ever. They tell us what we can do, what we should so, and where our duty lies in protecting those rights." He paused. "Nowhere else in the world can you go and be guaranteed - guaranteed - the right to speak your mind. To be guaranteed that you can practice your religion, no matter what it is. To know that your leaders are ultimately responsible to you, that they only govern by consent of the governed. These few pieces of paper make this the center of all the freedoms that man can hope to achieve."

"I am glad you brought us here."

"As am I," added Stasia. "But I am ready to move on. It is much to absorb, all at once."

"You're right about that," he said. "Right. Shall we?" And they headed for the exit.

Outside, they met up again with Hughes, who took charge of Stasia. Then Mike and Katrina strolled across the Mall, back to the main Air & Space Museum, and boarded a bus that would take them out to Dulles.

The Udvar-Hazy Center was the most recent addition to the sprawling Smithsonian and was the first located away from downtown DC. The forty-five-minute drive seemed to pass in seconds, both were so intrigued by what they hoped to find.

"When I was a kid," said Mike, as the bus entered the airport property, "I used to watch Star Trek on TV."

"Star Trek?"

"Science fiction show from the 60's, I caught the reruns in syndication. Kirk, Spock, McCoy." He saw the look. "It's easier to show you, I'll get some DVDs. Anyway, the ship they were on was called the U.S.S. Enterprise, and when NASA was choosing names for their shuttles, that's what they called the first one. Of course, they said it was to honor all the naval ships of that name, but we fans knew better. They cheated, though. This Enterprise never flew in space, doesn't even have engines. It was basically a giant model version, used just for unpowered glide tests and shit like that. Still, it's a shuttle. Wonder how close they'll let us get?"

They got off the bus and followed the crowd into the gleaming building. Picking up a map along the way, Mike and Katrina walked along the hallway that announced, "To Boeing Aviation Hangar/James S. McDonnell Space Hangar." Suddenly, a long, black shape appeared ahead of them. "It can't be," said Mike, hurrying a little.

"What?" asked Katrina alongside.

"They can't have a Blackbird here, they just can't!"

"What black bird? A raven?"

"No no no!" exclaimed Mike, pulling up short at the end of the walkway. "That's a Blackbird!"

Stretched out before them like a black dagger was the hundred-plus feet of an SR-71.

"That plane was the baddest, fastest, most radical plane ever produced for the Air Force! It could fly faster, farther, higher than anything else that breathed air. Nothing could catch it; not other jets, not missiles, hell, radar had a hard time finding it. Just look at it!" Mike had found the stairs leading down to its level and was walking, hypnotized, towards the plane. "It still looks like it's ready to go," he said, wonderingly. "It looks like it wants to go," he added.

"It looks evil," said Katrina. "No, not evil. It looks like it has a purpose."

"Sure does, honey. This bird used to fly anywhere we needed to look at. Anywhere, anytime. Go in, take pictures, come back. Before decent satellites and unmanned drones, it took one of these babies and a pilot with balls of steel to get the intel back home. No weapons at all on these. Just speed, pure and simple." He stood there, drinking it in. Katrina looked as well, but then turned away.

"Michael? What is that one?" She pointed to their left at an old piston-engined bomber.

He consulted the map. "This says it's the Enola Gay, the plane that - holy shit! That's the plane that dropped the first atomic bomb!" And they were off.

For two hours they explored the aviation hangar, discovering the history of aviation, one piece at a time. They found a Concorde, and a Super Constellation; they found the Gossamer Albatross; and a Grumman Goose; they found a Mustang and a Thunderbolt and a Hurricane and a Black Widow; they found planes he had never heard of and autogyros they had never imagined. Finally, almost satiated, they exited past the tail of the Blackbird and entered the Space Hangar.

There was the shuttle in all her glory. Brilliant white above, jet black tiles below, the old orbiter took his breath away.

"Why does it look like that?"

"Like what?"

"The sides, and the bottom. Why are they not smooth, why do they look like my family's hearth?"

"Oh, the tiles! Those are ceramic heat shields, used to keep the craft from burning up when it reenters the atmosphere."

"Ceramic? Like plates?" Her tone was dubious.

"Well, sort of. Same kind of stuff, but much, much lighter."

"Why not one big piece, then? Or a few big pieces? Instead of all these little tiles?"

"The tiles wear out eventually and have to be replaced. It's easier to do it if they're all fairly small."

"This one never went to space, you said?"

"No."

"Then how did they do, what did you say, 'glide tests'?"

"If I remember right, they mounted this on the back of a big plane, maybe a 747, and took it up as high as they could, then released it. Like flying a paper plane, just a lot bigger," he smiled.

"I want to see something that's been to space, Michael. Let's look!"

And away they went again. In pretty short order, they found two Mercury capsules and a Gemini capsule, and wondered at their size. "Our bed is bigger than Big Joe!" laughed Katrina, pointing to a Mercury.

"Not quite, but pretty close. But men went into space in those things." He peered at the marker. "Says that Big Joe was a test module, launched in 1959."

"And the other? Freedom 7?"

"That's actually Freedom 7 II. It would have been Alan Shepard's second ride into space, but the mission was scrubbed."

"Washed?"

He laughed. "No, cancelled." They continued their tour of the space hangar for another hour, then returned to aviation.

"Anything you want to go back to?"

"Have you flown in any of these, Michael?"

He thought for a moment. "Well, there's the UH-1. They have the Iroquois here, but I've been in the Huey. There's the Cessna and Piper Cub, too, but those don't really count. Umm, that might be it - oh, wait, I did fly in a Tomcat once, back in the day. Why?"

"I want to take your picture in front of all the planes you've flown in," she answered, pulling out a small camera.

He signed. Women and pictures.

===============================

Eventually they made it back to the hotel, a few minutes before Stasia and Hughes arrived.

"How was Natural History?"

"I never imagined the variety of animals, and the gems! Katrina, you must see these stones, and the jewelry! Michael, can we go back there while you're at your meeting? There are some things that Katrina shouldn't miss!"

"Sure, if she's willing." The objection was purely pro forma, as he could see the excitement in Kat's eyes.

"I would enjoy seeing them," she answered. "Is there time?"

"I don't know how long my meet will take. I'd hate to have you waiting outside the museum for me to come get you, though."

"It is certainly close enough for us to walk, Michael."

"What about your, problem?"

"It is not so bad, when I'm with someone. Besides, this is the capital of the whole country; what could happen here?"

He rolled his eyes. "Jack, you don't see or hear this. Kat, did you bring a piece?"

"Of course."

"Carry it. If anyone gives you a hard time, pull out your passport. I've arranged for diplomatic immunity for you both, so they shouldn't detain you. If they do, demand to call me, and we'll get you out of trouble."

"And what shall I say, when they ask why I am carrying a gun?"

"Simple. You're her bodyguard."

===============================

Mike and Major Hughes arrived at the Pentagon in plenty of time for the meeting. "You lead," said Mike. The Pentagon, with its seemingly endless concentric circles of corridors and offices, was one of the few buildings which could throw off his sense of direction. Checkpoints, of increasing thoroughness, were passed, and eventually they arrived at a conference room, deep in the most secure area. "I'll wait out here," said Hughes, and opened the door for Mike.

Around the table were a half-dozen men, and one woman, all dressed in high Washington "My clothes cost more than yours do, so I'm more important" fashion. One man, he recognized.

"Mr. Secretary!" he said, walking over. "I have to say, it's good to see a familiar face."

"Good to see you too, Mike," answered the Secretary of Defense. "Quite a mess we've dumped in your lap this time."

"Yeah, well, if it wasn't tough, you wouldn't need me," he answered. "I have to admit, I was surprised when the new guy kept you on. Pleased, but surprised."

"So was I," admitted SecDef. "But he's a good man, at heart, and he does admire an ability to get things done, no matter what side of the political aisle. We don't always see eye-to-eye, but he knows when he doesn't know something, and he'll listen to what I have to say. Fortunately, he's not trying to micromanage my Department. That, I couldn't accept."

Mike sat down. "We waiting for anyone else?"

"Besides Colonel Pierson? No. I understand that some more intel just came into his office, and he wanted to bring it to the meeting." The door opened as he was speaking, and Pierson walked in, a bulky folder under his arm.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen, ma'am. Mike." He looked around the table. "I think introductions might be in order."

The lone woman started. "Patricia O'Connell, Assistant Director, NSA. This is my assistant, Jeffrey Moore," she said. She was in her forties, Mike guessed, with a severe haircut and no makeup he could see. A real ball-buster, he thought. Got to her position by being orders of magnitude better than her competition and pushing aside anyone who wouldn't give way gracefully. Her assistant was a young, bookish-looking man. An ivory-tower policy wonk, he speculated. No real-world experience but can get every scrap of data out of a source.

The next man was speaking. "Agents Williams, Howard, and Rodgers, CIA. Rodgers and I have spent considerable time in Chechnya. Howard's been in Moscow, working with the Russian Federation Ministry of Defence on the nuke-exchange program." Two real agents, probably competent, and another bookworm, was his snap judgment.

"That just leaves me. George Watson, DIA-DJ." By his relaxed air, Mike pegged him as another career agent who had moved up by being competent.

"DJ?" he asked.

"Defense Intelligence Operations Coordination Center. We try to put the big picture together."

"Why not DI? Or DC?"

"DI is taken - Analysis. And DC would be a little confusing, dontcha think?" He laughed a little, a genuine laugh. "Besides, it's our job to make sense out of intelligence, not make sense ourselves."

"And everyone knows the Secretary, of course," said Pierson.

There were nods and murmurs around the table.

"Let's get this rolling. I know we're all on tight schedules -"

"Nope," said Mike. "Not me. I have to be in Boston by 7pm tomorrow. That's about it."

"What's in Boston?" asked one of the CIA guys - Williams, he thought.

"Red Sox versus Tampa Bay at Fenway. You know how long it's been since I've been to a ballgame?"

Pierson smiled, then said, "Okay, back on topic. We're all here to give Mike any and all the assistance he needs to solve this problem for us, without having it blow up in our faces, literally." He sat down. "Now. Mike, I have some intel from your operatives, J and Cottontail. They've intercepted a shipment of uranium tritide and are going to trace it back up the chain as far as they can."

"So, the nukes aren't ready to fire, or at least not all of them," said Howard. "The tritide is needed to replace the triggers."

"And that means that we have a little time, at least," added Watson. "It wouldn't do much good to threaten to use a nuke and then not have it work. I don't think they'd go even if they had just enough, either. They want to have them all ready. At least," he amended, "I'd want them all ready first, before I moved."

"Why do you think that?" asked Rodgers. "The Chechens aren't known for their planning, or patience."

"We don't think this is a Chechen operation."

"Of course it's a Chechen operation, who else would it be?"

"Sorry, I should be clearer. It hasn't been planned by any Chechens, and it's not just Chechnya that's in play." Watson brought out a briefcase. "According to what we've been able to assemble, the driving force behind the latest insurgency is Giku Inarov." He gave the background quickly. "Lately, in the past six months, he's been advised primarily by a man named Ibrahim. That's all we know. Nobody has a photo, or bio, or, hell, even a last name."

"What are you doing, then?" put in O'Connell.

"Waiting for you jokers to get the raw intel," he snapped back. Obviously, this was an old disagreement, and Mike wasn't going to put up with it.

"I don't have time for this bullshit," he said. "It doesn't matter why we don't have info on this guy. We need to get some and get it quick." He faced the CIA agents. "Do you have any contacts who are in with the insurgents?"

Williams and Rodgers shared a look before answering. "We do have one man inserted, but it would be almost impossible to get his information without extracting him. And if we manage to extract him, he's done as a source."

Pierson spoke up before Mike could erupt. "Doesn't matter. This is the absolute priority of all our resources. We hold nothing back - nothing!"

"Besides, if we succeed, there won't be an insurgency for him to return to," supplied Mike.

"That would be worth it," said Williams. "We'll try to get a message to him tonight and start working on an extraction plan."

"What else do we have?" said Pierson.

===============================

The meeting dragged on for three hours. By the end, Mike had a headache and was reminded again why he hated DC. He stood up.

"I've heard enough. Mr. Secretary, always a pleasure. Bob, if you're ever in Georgia -"

"Someday, Mike. Soon, if we can get this wrapped up."

"George, I'll get my intel guy in touch with you. You seem to be able to coordinate everything pretty well."

"That's my job," he agreed.

"Williams, if you need any help on the ground, talk to George. We have some resources in the area who may be in a position to assist. Ms. O'Connell, I need constant access to Echelon." She looked as if she was going to object, so he continued. "Don't fuck with me, lady. Right now, you work for me." With that, he walked out of the room.

"Jack, let's get the hell out of here. I've had enough of DC."

CHAPTER 24

Boston, MA

April 9

The flight to Logan, early the next morning, took little more than an hour. Getting from Logan to their hotel, slightly longer. Though, to be honest, they mostly spent that time waiting for their water taxi. It was much cooler than Washington, but still a sunny and pleasant morning.

"This is Boston?" asked Kat, looking back at the airport.

"At the moment, we're in East Boston. Across the harbor, that's Boston."

"Oh! Michael, you're teasing me!"

"You betcha," he laughed. The water taxi, a small, covered launch, finally arrived, and they carefully boarded, Hughes first, Mike last. "Long Wharf," said Mike, and they were off.

"What is Long Wharf?" said Kat.

"That," Mike answered, pointing at a vaguely pyramid-shaped brick building. "You can see it from here. Actually, that's our hotel."

"Right on the water?"

"Right over the water. Built on the old Long Wharf. We've a couple suites on the top floor. Jack, can you get us checked in?"

"Sure. Why me?"

"We're going to head across to Faneuil Hall. Meet you there."

Past the hotel, across Atlantic Avenue, and they were there. Mike talked along the way.

"Faneuil Hall was built in the 1700s by a wealthy merchant as a gift to the city. During the years leading up to the revolution, and all through it, the Hall was the meeting place of the Sons of Liberty - they'd be called a terrorist organization, now. But then, they were the leaders in planning and justifying the revolution. Of course, I'm biased, since it was our revolution."

They passed under an arch and Quincy Market stretched before them, three brick colonial buildings, replete with shops and restaurants of all types. Slowed to a crawl by window shopping, Hughes quickly caught up with them.

"It reminds me of the bazaar," said Stasia an hour later. "All the booths and little shops. Not as much haggling, though."

"I'm glad you're comfortable," said Mike from behind the bags. Good thing there aren't any real high-end stores, he thought, or we wouldn't make it back to the hotel. As it was, Stasia and Kat had still managed to spend several hundred dollars on small items they thought would be appreciated at home. "I'm going to bring this all back to the hotel, then we'll have lunch. Meet you in front of Durgin-Park in fifteen minutes?" He waited for a nod, then headed off.

He found the room at the hotel quickly, and even more rapidly inspected it. While not nearly as elaborate or tradition-soaked as the Hay-Adams, it was pleasant, airy, and the south-facing windows opened onto their own balcony. At the appointed time, Mike was back at the North Market Building. Kat and Stasia were looking at the menu; Hughes was watching the gathering lunch crowd.

"This may be the People's Republic of Massachusetts, Jack, but I don't think they're violent," he joked, though he quietly approved of the man's professionalism. "Ladies. Ready?"

"Starving," admitted Kat. The hostess brought them inside to a table along the wall. Unlike most restaurants, the Durgin-Park was a single large room on this level, with communal tables. As they watched, three groups were brought in and seated, all at the same table. When one member objected, the waitress wasted no time in telling him just what he could do about it. "This is where we brought ya, and this is where you'll sit. Or you can take yourself out, I don't care." Stasia and Kat were surprised to see the other patrons smiling at this treatment.

"It's part of the legend of this place," explained Mike. "Story is, the original owners, back in the 1830s, would encourage the wait staff to give back to the customers more attitude than they'd receive. Glad to see some things haven't changed," he finished as their waitress approached.

"You want a drink?" she asked without preamble.

"You have Mountain Tiger?"

"Yeah, we do. You got the money?"

"Four Tigers. Then a plate of fried soft-shelled crabs, and three - no, better make it four - New England clambakes. You got that, or you want me to repeat it?"

She actually smiled. "Been here before, eh? Got it, sweetie." She walked off.

"Jack, you had Mountain Tiger before?" Hughes shook his head. "This'll be a real treat, then." In Keldara Georgian, he added, "Don't tell him that you think it's the slops, right?"

"No, Michael," Kat said in the same language. "We want the foolish Americans to keep buying our swill!" But she said it with a smile.

The beers arrived, along with huge pieces of warm cornbread, which neither Stasia nor Kat had ever tried before; Kat enjoyed it, but Stasia found it too sweet for her taste. Then came the lightly breaded, spicy crabs, quickly devoured by all (once Mike showed the girls how to handle them), and the clam chowder, another new experience for the women. Both seemed to enjoy the soup, though. As she chased the last spoonful around the cup, Kat asked, "What is a New England clam bake?" Before Mike could answer, the waitress returned, with help.

She was carrying two huge plates, and her trailer carried another pair. They were piled high with steamers - clams - still in their opened shells; bright red lobsters, drawn butter, baby boiled potatoes, and corn on the cob. They set the plates down, and the waitress said, "Still hungry? Or this scare you?"

"Got any crackers?" asked Mike.

"Just this," she replied, pulling out a small hammer. "Crackers are for wimps."

Mike tied the cheesy, but necessary, plastic bib around his neck, picked up the hammer, grabbed his lobster, and gave the crusher claw a good rap. The shell shattered; he passed the hammer to Kat while he finished breaking it open, pulling out the meat. She attempted to imitate his swift, firm blow, but barely managed to crack the tough shell. She tried again, harder, and missed the claw entirely. The loud thunk was largely drowned by the noise of the now-crowded restaurant, but she blushed furiously anyway. Mike decided not to comment.

All too soon, the lunches were gone. The steamers weren't too popular with the women, and the boiled potatoes were universally ignored, but the rest of the meal was polished off. "That was a New England clam bake," finally answered Mike. "Tradition says it's supposed to be done on a beach, with rocks and seaweed, but I don't think they do that here. It was a way for early settlers to cook a number of different foods at once with the limited kitchen hardware they had."

"It was very good, Michael," said Stasia. "I haven't had lobster since the Bahamas. I hadn't realized how much I missed it."

"Yes, delicious!" added Kat. "Especially the lobster! Would it be too difficult to get, at home?"

"It won't be easy," hedged Mike. "The best lobsters come from this area of the world. But," he confessed, "I'm sure we can manage to get some, sometimes."

"Now where?" said Hughes.

"We have about six hours before the game. I thought we'd take the time to walk across town, through the Commons and the Public Gardens, maybe along Newbury Street. It's a good day, so the observation tower in the Prudential ought to be open."

He was right; it was a good day to walk. As they passed through the city, he pointed out as many landmarks as he could remember: Government Center in Scollay Square, along Beacon Street, past the State House with its golden dome; into and across Boston Common, just beginning to green, but with early-season sun worshippers dotted along the hill; across Charles and into the Public Gardens. There, they explored for a while, searching.

"When I was a kid," explained Mike, "There was a book, called Make Way for Ducklings. It was set here, in the Public Gardens, and I had heard that bronze statues of the ducks were placed somewhere in here." Along the way, they crossed over what announced itself to be "The World's Shortest Suspension Bridge" over the pond. Finally, in the northeast corner, by the gate at the corner of Charles and Beacon, they found it. Nine bronze ducks, one about three feet tall, the others each about a foot tall, stretched in a long line across old cobblestones.

"They all had names," said Mike. "That has to be Mrs. Mallard," pointing to the largest statue. "One of the chicks is Jack, and another was Quack, but I'll be damned if I remember the rest."

"Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack," supplied a grinning Hughes. "My mom used to read that book to me, and since one was named Jack..."

Kat sat on Mrs. Mallard's back. "Mike, come here, stand behind me. Stasia? Will you take our picture?"

==============================

Thirty minutes later, Kat was leaning back into Mike's arms in the observation deck of the Prudential. Stasia reacted to the shops on Newbury Street like a cat to catnip. Kat, fortunately, had resisted, so it was left to Hughes to follow Stasia along the boutique-lined street. "Just make sure they can have it delivered to the hotel!" was all Mike could get out before she had run across the street, dodging traffic, Hughes close at her heels.

The Pru was just a short distance away. They entered through the shops on the ground floor, making a quick stop at l'Occitane ("Finest soaps in the world," promised Mike, without mentioning that, the last time he had been near a l'Occitane location, it was in danger of being nuked) and a cart selling Russian nesting dolls, called matryoshka. Inspiration had struck him, and he had a quick, whispered conversation with the attendant, who then selected four of the dolls for Mike to examine. He looked at all, then bought the second and tucked it away. They bought their tickets and were soon up the elevator to the 50th floor.

"Why do you bring us to Boston?"

"For a ballgame," he answered immediately.

She faced him. "Really why."

He turned her back and wrapped his arms around her slim waist. "For all its problems, for all of the idiocies of its people and politicians, this is the birthplace of America. The Declaration wasn't signed here, and the war wasn't won here, I know. But down there -" He pointed to the Old South Meeting House. " - the first real act of rebellion started, the Boston Tea Party. Just there -" He pointed again, this time to a street corner. " - the first blood was shed for freedom, the Boston Massacre. Off in that direction -" And he turned her to the northwest. " - lie Lexington and Concord, the first battlegrounds. Bunker Hill, you can see the monument, looks like the Washington Monument? And Old Ironsides, the U.S.S. Constitution? Down there, still in fighting trim, ready to defend this country against her enemies." He stopped for a moment. "By American standards, this is an old city. And she wears her history well. Not even the revisionists dare to touch what the Bostonians have preserved. I want you to feel some of that, because if the Constitution and Bill of Rights are, historically, this country's heart, then here is the country's soul. Nothing politicians do can change that."

Kat was silent, briefly. Then, turning, she put her hands behind Mike's head and kissed him soundly. "Thank you," she said when she finally released him. "I begin to understand. Mostly. But one thing I do not."

"Yeah?"

"Baseball."

"Oh, crap." He took her hand. "Come on. If I have to explain baseball, I need a drink."

==============================

" - so that's the Infield Fly rule," Mike finally concluded.

They were two floors up, in the aptly named Top of the Hub restaurant. He was on his third Tiger, while Katrina was making do with a Coke, as she'd been carded and, being under twenty-one, wasn't old enough to drink here. Mike thought about telling the server that Kat had probably drunk more in her life than he had but refrained.

"Ah. Even if he drops the ball, the batter is out."

"Yeah."

She sighed. "It is confusing."

"Yeah, it is. It's the 'national pastime,' though, and you're going to see it in one of the oldest parks in the country, a century old."

"My Family home is older than that!"

"Different culture, different rules, remember?" He looked at his watch. "Hungry?"

"A little."

"How about some pizza?" She made a face; pizza hadn't caught on in the Valley, despite the Chief's efforts. It could be because Adams insisted that he make the dough and sauce himself, from scratch, only made two kinds, cheese or pepperoni, and the results usually ranged from disgusting to inedible. "Not like the Chief makes. I promise you." He paid for the drinks and they headed for the lifts. "This will be the real deal."

And so it was. A short ride on a Green Line trolley got them to North Station, and a five-minute walk brought them to Regina Pizzeria. Mike called Stasia before they entered.

"Done shopping yet?"

"I think, yes," she said. He could hear the smile in her voice. "A bigger plane might be needed."

"Sure hope not. Did you pick it up?"

"Yes, it was ready. They were reluctant to part with it without a proper sizing, but they understood the need. If you need it altered, they will do it tomorrow for you."

"Great. We're at Regina Pizzeria, in the North End." He explained how to get there. "See you soon."

The interior was a Hollywood set designer's dream. Tables of all sizes were scattered through an oddly shaped room. The yellow walls were covered with photos, menus, signs, and awards. The smell of the brick oven hung heavy in the air.

They managed to get a table, explained that two more would be coming, and ordered, drinks first, then the pizzas. As they waited for the drinks, Kat asked, "What did you have Stasia pick up, Michael?"

He was prepared for the question. "I thought we should bring some copies of the duckling book back for the Keldara kids." I'd better get some on the plane! he thought.

The drinks in hand, talk turned to the next day. "The show I want to bring you to isn't until Thursday night, so we can spend another day here in Boston if you want, or we can just head to St. Louis. There's more to see here, and I'm sure there's plenty to see there, too."

"I think I would like another day here."

"Suits. Oh, there you are," he said to the approaching Stasia and Hughes. "Finished stimulating the local economy?"

"For now," she replied, sitting. "Though there are a few shops I would like to return to."

"Katrina and I were just discussing that, and I think we'll stay here another day. Jack? Any problems on your end with that?"

"None at all. As I said, I'm assigned to you as long as you're here, so where you go, I go. Not often I get this kind of duty, either, and I'm enjoying it!"

Just then, the pizzas arrived. The crusts were browned and irregular from the hand-tossed dough. "I ordered their Classico and something called a Giambotta," Mike said. "The Classico is the one with pepperoni, mushroom, and artichokes; the other one has pepperoni, sausage, salami, mushrooms, peppers, onions. They say they make the dough, sauce, and sausage here, if that matters to you. Dig in." He took one of the oversized slices from the Giambotta, folded it, and took a bite. A smile of contentment spread across his face. "Ahhh."

Pizzas demolished and bill paid, Mike said, "Well? How do you feel about pizza now?"

"If the Chief could do half as well...!"

"I must get their recipes! Then give them to the Chief - no, Mother Savina." said Stasia, standing. "I'll be back," and off she marched, a determined look on her face.

"Got to admit, this is the best pizza I've had in a long, long time," added Hughes. "Wonder if they deliver to DC?"

The conversation flowed as they waited for Stasia. After ten minutes, Mike was about ready to go search for her when she reappeared, an envelope in hand.

"You got them?" he asked wonderingly.

She nodded.

"All three? Dough, sauce, sausage?"

She nodded again.

He looked at his watch. "Really quick for a blow," he commented in Georgian.

"Michael!"

==============================

The cabbie dropped them in Kenmore Square. "Close as I can get, folks, unless you want to sit in traffic ten minutes. But the park's about two minutes' walk that way," he commented. They chose to walk.

The crowds were like nothing the ladies had ever seen. Even DC paled by comparison with the waves of humanity heading for the old park that day. Hundreds and hundreds, thousands, dressed in team apparel - even a few in the visitor's uniforms - colors clashing as the teams would soon, with a universal, anticipatory feeling, gave the walk almost the air of a festival. Over the crowd, Mike tried to answer questions.

"How many will there be?" asked Stasia nervously.

"It's Opening Day, and this team usually sell out, so thirty-six, thirty-seven thousand."

"All to see a game?"

"You have to remember, Stasia, about baseball, and the Red Sox, in particular: the fans are loyal. The English 'fan' comes from the same root as 'fanatic,' and these people prove it. Every year, every game, they come out to cheer on their home team." He chuckled. "I've heard it's even worse, now they've actually won the Series."

"Series?" asked Kat.

"World Series. They've won a couple times this century, most recently in 2007, and first in 2004. Before that? 1918 was the last time they had won, and some people said -" His explanation of the Curse of the Bambino brought them past the entrance gate, and disbelieving looks to their faces.

"Are they really so foolish?"

"Seriously? No. Probably not. But it made for a hell of a story, and a great excuse for all the years they snatched defeat from the jaws of victory." He stopped in a quieter part of the concourse. "Everyone got their ticket? Good. Stasia, stay with Jack. Kat, you're with me. We'll meet at our suite."

"Suite?" asked Hughes.

"Yeah. We're in the Legends Suite, upstairs."

Mike and Kat began to wander around the concourse, chatting.

"Shouldn't they be sitting down?"

"Coming to the game is an event, almost a religious experience, for some of these people. They call themselves the 'Fenway Faithful' and 'Red Sox Nation.' Being here is important to them, and they take their time and wander around, doing what we're doing: looking, talking, maybe meeting someone they know."

"What is there to look at? All I see are people selling things, food, drink, toys?"

"That's part of it They'll look to see what they want to get for a souvenir, or what beers they carry, or -"

"Do they sell our beer here?"

"I don't think we can get a Tiger here, not yet anyway. Maybe sometime soon. As I was saying. People also just want to see who else is here, how they're dressed. Can't you feel it?"

She had to admit, there was something about the atmosphere that was different. "They're all smiling!" she said suddenly. "Everyone! Why? They can't all have such good lives?"

"You're right, they can't. But here, and now, especially today, they can. It's Opening Day. The whole season - and baseball has a long, long season, it runs six months of the year and mostly outdoors - is stretched out before them. Today, anything is possible. Last year? Forgotten. Tomorrow? Not here yet. Right now, for these few hours, everyone here can dream about being part of something special, something memorable, something that they can tell their kids, 'I was at Fenway when...' It's unique, and it's priceless." He paused as they reached a table and sat down.

"Among all the major sports, baseball is unique for the way the game is played. Baseball is the only sport that isn't ruled by a clock; instead, they use outs, and innings. There's no set time a game will last. It could be an hour and a half; it could be four hours. It's timeless. Baseball is the only game where the defense controls the ball. In baseball, you don't score a run with the ball itself; it's the action of a player that causes the run, when he crosses home plate. And, you don't have to be a freak of nature to play it. Sure, it helps to be strong, and coordinated, but you don't have to have hands the size of oven mitts to hold the ball or be the size of a sumo wrestler. It's a game for ordinary people to take time out from their working lives and enjoy." He noted the movement of the crowd. "I think we should head up."

A few minutes' walk, and a quick elevator ride, brought them up to the suite level. A well-dressed attendant checked their tickets at the elevator and welcomed them with a smile.

"Just down the hall. You can't miss it," she said.

They didn't. They entered the suite and Kat gasped. It was a large room, with off-white walls and wood paneling. A luxurious dark blue carpet lay across the floor. At the back was a full bar; along the wall, clever alcoves allowed a variety of seating; and at the front, floor-to-ceiling windows that opened out onto a private seating section and Fenway Park. There were a number of people already in the room, two obviously attendants in uniform, an older, dignified-looking black man, and the rest were guests, chattering and laughing. Stasia and Jack were absent.

One of the attendants came up and said, "Good evening, sir, ma'am. My name's Eric, and I'm one of your hosts today, and Meghan, behind the bar, is the other. Welcome to the Legends Suite at Fenway Park."

"Thanks," answered Mike, looking around.

"First visit to the suite?"

"First time in Fenway," Mike said. "Both of us."

"Then we have to make it memorable for you! Meghan," he called to the other attendant. "We're going on the tour. Back in a bit."

Mike tried to object, but the young man waved him off. "Seeing Fenway from the inside isn't something to miss," he said. "We've missed batting practice, but maybe I can get you into the clubhouse. Let's try there, first." Leading the way out, he pulled out a radio. "Clubhouse, this is Legends."

"Clubhouse."

"Hey Tim, I've got two VIPs up here who've missed BP. They have time to visit the clubhouse?"

"If you get your ass right down."

"On our way." He faced Mike. "Good news! We can do a quick clubhouse tour - they usually close up a half hour before game time, so we've got a few minutes."

"Clubhouse?"

"Where the players wait before the game," said Mike.

Down the elevator, through the crowds, a locked door that stated, "Authorized Personnel Only," down a concrete corridor, the old walls soaked in tradition and a strangely familiar musty odor, and they were at the clubhouse. He opened the door, and a wave of sound washed over them, music, voices, laughter. "I don't know how many you'll get to meet, it's pretty crazy in here just before a game, but - oh, there's Mike Lowell, he's usually pretty good. Hey, Mike!" he called across the room. The player, a spare man with a pepper-and-salt goatee, warm eyes and an inviting smile, replied "Eric! What brings you down here?"

"Some folks I'd like you to meet. Mike Lowell, this is Mike -"

"Jenkins," supplied Mike smoothly. "And Kat Devlich, my fiancée."

"Always happy to meet another Mike," quipped Lowell, coming across and shaking hands. "And the pleasure is all mine, Miss Devlich."

"You are a player?" asked Kat.

Lowell looked quizzically at Mike. "Her first game," he supplied. Lowell nodded. "Yes, I'm the third baseman for the Sox. Or at least I am as long as this hip holds up," he added ruefully.

"That sucks," said Mike knowingly. "Hope it doesn't slow you up too much."

"Tito's got me in the lineup, so I'm off to a good start."

"Good luck out there today, man."

"Thanks. Papi!" Lowell called. A very large black man turned from his locker, which was blasting music. "Come say hello!"

Shirt unbuttoned, the player came over. If anything, his smile was even bigger than Lowell's. "Mike, Kat, meet David Ortiz. We call him Big Papi. David, Mike Jenkins and his fiancée, Kat Devlich."

Kat looked up at Ortiz, who dwarfed her much more petite frame. "He is big," she said. Ortiz laughed loudly. "I'm not so scary once you know me," he said with an accent.

"Dominican?" said Mike.

"Si," he replied, engulfing Mike's hand. "You know the island?"

"Spent some time there, doing this and that."

"What d'you do now?"

"Make beer, Mountain Tiger."

"That is the best!" exclaimed Ortiz. "Can't never get enough of it, though. Did you know that, Mikey?"

Lowell had to shake his head. "You make the Tiger? Man, I knew I liked you for some reason!" he grinned. The players were starting to gather equipment; the clubhouse buzzing with anticipation. "Hey, we've got to run, got a game to play, you know. You going to be around after the game?"

"For a day or so," said Mike, shaking hands again. He dug in a pocket. "We're in the Legends Suite tonight, and then around the town tomorrow. My sat phone's on there, you can give me a call if you want."

"What I want is to win this game!" yelled Ortiz, drawing a ragged cheer from the departing players.

"Might, at that," said Lowell.

"If nothing else, I'll get a couple cases of Tiger sent down here. I warn you, it might spoil you for anything else."

"With this crew? I'll take that chance," laughed Lowell. "Good meeting you." With that, Lowell and Ortiz turned away to make their final game preparations.

The rest of the tour flew by. Eric showed them the ancient manual scoreboard, with graffiti and signatures adorning the concrete walls; the red seat in the bleachers where Ted Williams hit the longest home run in Fenway history ("Five hundred and two feet," he said, as proudly as if he'd hit it himself); he took them to the Players Club, where the two World Series trophies were displayed and had their pictures taken; and finally back up to the suite.

"Sorry I couldn't show you more, but I didn't think you'd want to miss the first pitch," he said as they reentered the room.

"No problem," said Mike. "It was something else." A quick glance showed Hughes and Stasia, seated with two other people at a table. "Looks like our friends are back."

"Great! If you need anything else, just let me know," said Eric, then drifted off into the crowd.

"Where have you been?" demanded Stasia. "We got lost!"

"Lost?"

"Yeah, we ended up on the broadcast level somehow. A guy named Remy brought us back down, once we explained we were looking for the Legends Suite."

"Why did they call him Rem-Dawg?" asked Stasia.

"No idea," admitted Mike. "I think he's one of the television announcers, though. Named Jerry Remy." He shrugged, sitting down. "Rem-Dawg, huh?"

"You met Remy?" said the man. He was probably in his sixties, with curly hair and beard which had turned nearly white, glasses, and a look about him that said, "I may be retired, but I'm still serious."

"I guess so."

"Michael, please meet our new friends. This is Lewis Barry, and his wife, Marilyn." The woman smiled a greeting. "Lewis, Marilyn, Michael Jenkins and Katrina Devlich."

Mike reached across to shake Lewis' hand. "Please, call me Mike. Stasia and my mother are the only people who ever say 'Michael.'"

"And I'm Lew. Pleased to meet you, Mike. Anastasia was telling us that you're in beer?"

"Not as often as I'd like," and they all laughed. "Yeah, I'm a partner in the company that makes Mountain Tiger beer."

"I've seen it here and there but have never tried it. Pretty expensive stuff."

"It's pretty good stuff. Plus, we have to export it from Georgia, the country, and that runs most of the cost up." By now, Mike had left his original cover story of a retired widget-maker behind, it having been too vague and too open to incorrect interpretations. "What do you do, Lew?"

"I'm retired, now, but I was a buyer for an appliance retailer for years."

"And you, Marilyn?"

"Retired, too, after my second career as a lawyer."

"Second career?" asked Katrina.

"I was a teacher, with VISTA, after college, but I stopped teaching when I had my sons. I went back to school after they left home, got my JD, and worked for the public defender's office for a few years."

"You stopped work, and then did something else? Wasn't that difficult?"

"Some. But the law had always interested me, and I wanted to do something for the common good."

Mike tuned out the women's discussion and turned to Lew. "What do you think about the Sox' chances this year?"

==============================

The game was, well, baseball. When the second baseman, Pedroia, hit a home run in the bottom of the first, both Kat and Stasia retreated into the suite, covering their ears, deafened by the roar of the crowd. And when Varitek, the catcher, hit one in the bottom of the sixth to put the Sox up 5-1, the roar nearly split Mike's head.

In between, they talked with Lew and Marilyn, Lew explaining many of the finer points of the game to Stasia and Kat, nibbled - Lew insisted that they each have a Fenway Frank - and relaxed. At one point, when the television which was tuned to the game had a shot of the announcers, Stasia practically leapt out of her seat, saying, "That's him!" and pointing.

"That's Remy,' confirmed Lew.

They met Jim Rice, who was the 'Legends' host for the evening. He sat down with them for quite some time, talking mostly to Lew, who had been a Sox fan since the early Fifties.

It took some persuading, and a considerable tip, but Mike finally convinced Eric to find and bring back a case of Tiger from outside the park to share with the other guests in the suite. All agreed that it was the best they had ever had, even Lew.

The final highlight was in the eighth inning, when a pair of boxes arrived and were presented to Mike and Kat. Attached to one was a card, which read, "For the couple who gives us beer, something to remember your friends on the Red Sox." Inside were a pair of team jackets, each embroidered with their names. Surprisingly, they fit.

"I've gotta send them that beer now," said Mike, admiring Katrina.

The game ended with a win, and music started playing. "What's that song?" said Stasia.

"'Dirty Water' by the Standells," said Lew. "It's from the Sixties. The Sox have adopted it as their victory song; they play it after every home win."

"Like, what was it, 'Sweet Caroline'?"

"Something like that."

With a few more words, Lew and Marilyn left, declining an invitation for a round of drinks ("No, we have a long drive back to Maine"). Eventually, they were the last ones in the suite, still talking.

"I think it's time to go," said Mike, finally. "What do you think?"

"It is different," ventured Stasia.

"I understand what you were saying, Michael. At least, I think I do," said Kat. "I enjoyed it, though."

"What about you, Jack?"

He had the decency to look sheepish as he admitted, quietly, "Tell the truth, I'm a Yankees fan."

==============================

The crowds leaving the park were almost worse than going in, having had nine innings' worth of beer and a Sox victory to buoy their spirits. There weren't nearly enough cabs, and the queues around the Green Line stops were ridiculous. They walked south along Yawkey Way, through the Fens, to a much-less crowded station, jumped on an almost-empty trolley, and enjoyed the ride back toward the hotel. Unfortunately, this line didn't quite get them to the hotel, and they ended up walking another easy half-mile through the deserted Faneuil Hall Marketplace.

At the hotel, Mike said, "I'm not ready to hit the sack. Anyone want to hang out with me?"

Stasia spoke first. "Not I, Michael. The game was exhausting!"

Hughes said, "I might -" An elbow interrupted him. "That is, I might turn in too."

Kat missed the byplay; Mike didn't. "Katrina?"

"I'll keep you company. For a while, at least." Taking her arm, he guided her into the Oceana's lounge.

"Still open?" he asked the lone bartender, sitting down.

"Yes, sir, for quite a while."

"Kitchen?"

He checked the clock behind. "A little while yet."

"Oysters? Kat?"

"I've never tried them, but I will."

"A dozen oysters, and a shrimp cocktail - just in case."

"Very good. And drinks?"

"No more beer tonight, Michael," said Kat.

"What's your best drink?" he asked.

"I'd say the Wicked Good Mojito. Or would the lady prefer something sweet? I make a mean Chocolate Milkshake Martini."

"Ooh, yes!"

"Those sound good. Mojito for me, martini for her."

"Right away." He turned to pull liquors off the shelf.

"How'd you like the baseball game?" Mike asked.

"A little confusing, but fun! I'm glad we got to meet a couple players. Everyone was so excited, though. And loud!"

"I told you - fanatics," he grinned. The drinks were placed before them. "Cheers," he toasted, and took a sip. "You're right, that is wicked good. How's yours, Kat?"

"Very sweet, just what I wanted." In Georgian, she added, "Why did he not ask for my age, like the other place?"

In the same language, he replied, "Not too many minors come in here trying to get a drink, most likely. Or maybe you look older to him. You want me to ask?" he finished, mischievously.

"No!"

They sipped their drinks then, talking over the game. Kat showed an amazing grasp of the basics, but some of the details she had questions about. The barkeep, who introduced himself as Will, joined in, and shortly an animated discussion ensued until the food arrived. Then, Will backed off.

"They aren't cooked!" she said, looking at the oysters lying in their shells.

"Nope. Best way to have 'em," answered Mike, picking one up. "Try one. Just put the shell to your lips, tip it up, and let it slide in. Like this." And he demonstrated.

Nervously, she took one. "I'll try," she said, and popped it into her mouth. Her face wrinkled in displeasure, but she swallowed. "Eww!" she exclaimed, taking a hasty drink. "Yuck! Salty, slimy - how can you eat them?"

"It's an acquired taste," he admitted.

"One I shall not be acquiring, then!"

"Suit yourself. More for me. You can enjoy the shrimp." Those were much more to her liking, and the food disappeared quickly. When the plates had been cleared away, Mike said, "I have something for you."

"Did you pick me up a souvenir?"

"Sort of," he replied, taking a wrapped box from his pocket.

"What is it?" she said, shaking it slightly. It rattled.

"Open it."

Eager as a child at Christmas, Kat tore the paper off and opened the box. Out came the matryoshka Mike had bought earlier in the day, a colorful depiction of a black-haired Russian peasant girl on the outside.

"Oh, how adorable! We played with these as children, though ours weren't this new," and she opened the first doll. The second nesting doll was similar, with a brown-haired girl.

"Keep going," urged Mike.

The third doll had blonde hair, and the fourth had red hair. "Like me!" she said.

"Yes, just like you. Go on, open that one."

"One more, yes?" The fourth doll was only a couple inches tall. She pulled it apart, and gasped. "Michael!"

Inside was a ring, a deep blue sapphire, set in white gold, flanked by two diamonds on each side.

Taking her hands in his, Mike said, "In America, it is customary for the bride-to-be to wear an engagement ring before her wedding. I realize that we won't have a particularly long engagement, but I thought you deserved a ring."

"It's beautiful!"

"Try it on. Here, this finger," holding her right ring finger. The ring slid easily down. "One very important thing."

"What?"

"On our wedding day, you'll move the ring from this hand to the other before the ceremony. Then I'll place the wedding band on the same finger."

"This is really going to happen, isn't it?"

"It is."

She wrapped herself around him. "I love you so much, Michael."

"I love you, Kat."
CHAPTER 25

Utta, Russia; The Caravanserai; Groznyy

April 9

It was decided that Katya would arrive in Utta first, about an hour before J arrived as Abdul Hamid on the bus. That would give her sufficient time to find the café, reconnoiter, and leave for a nearby 'hide' well before J arrived. She wore a clean but not stylish dress, giving her the look of a semi-successful professional woman. A bank clerk, perhaps, or a low-level manager, and carried business cards that read, "Katsarina Kapitskaya, Software Developer, TELMA."

They even carried a phone number that would eventually route back to the Cave. The Four Blind Mice had hacked into a defunct telecomm company's abandoned routers; now, that number would ring to a computerized voicemail system which would back up Cottontail's card.

She left at nine. The battered old car had seen better days. It didn't have shock absorbers, she thought, as much as shock transmitters. In only a few kilometers her ass was as sore as she had ever been, and that included the worst tricks she'd turned. "If they make me sit on a wooden chair in the café, they're going to eat the table," she muttered as she hit another pothole. At least the heat worked.

Three hours later she crawled into Utta, parked the Lada a few blocks from the Wandering Wolf, and stretched. Her back and shoulders ached now, as much from the effort of wrenching the recalcitrant steering wheel as the pummeling the road had given her, and she allowed a few minutes to recover before setting off. Looking around, she said, "What a shithole."

Utta had seen better days. The few buildings were weathered and worn, battered and poorly maintained at best. One, the sign proclaiming it to be a branch of Inkombank, was a gutted concrete shell. A couple cars prowled desultorily along the road, most of the few people she saw choosing to walk rather than risk the pothole slalom of what obviously passed for their main street.

The Wandering Wolf had seen better days, too, but there was a neon sign for Baltika beer in the window, and an appetizing smell of grilling meat came from the store. Realizing she was ready to eat, she pulled open the door with a creak and walked in.

The interior was sparse, but clean. Three small round tables stood before her, a pair of booths to the left and right, and the obligatory bar, with a half-dozen high-backed chairs, toward the back. A grainy television was showing a soccer match, FC Khimik against Spartak, and she asked the lone barkeep slash waiter, idly wiping a tray with a towel as he watched the game, "What's the score?"

"Spartak is kicking the shit out of those Khimik pussies. It's six nil."

"Fucking Khimik. Think they'll get relegated?" she asked, dropping onto a chair with an appreciative sigh.

"They've won one match this season, what do you think?"

"Damn."

"You like those fucks?"

She shrugged and took off her coat. "Don't care about them one way or another, but my company's one of their sponsors."

"Sorry to hear that. Who's your company?"

"TELMA. We do software."

"Never heard of you."

She shrugged again, to much greater effect. The blouse she wore was tight and just slightly translucent, so she knew she'd be remembered for her tits, instead of any questions she might ask. "Doesn't look like you have much use for our product here," she laughed.

"Not really," he agreed. "What can I get you?"

"Bottle of water, and something to eat. What's cooking? I smelled it outside."

"Boris is grilling venison. Shot it myself."

"I'll take that, a small steak."

"No beer?"

She shuddered inwardly. "No, I have to get back on the road after lunch," she explained. He yelled the order back to the kitchen, brought her water, and returned to the game. She swiveled in the chair, looking around. One old woman sat in a booth, nursing a cup of a hot drink; other than her, the place was empty.

"Lunch rush?" she asked.

"Ha. Since the battery factory closed, this place has gone to hell. Don't know why I keep coming to work, it hardly pays to stay open."

"Because your mother would thrash you if you closed down, Yevgeni," croaked the other customer.

"Drink your tea, Baba Matya, and mind your own business!" said Yevgeni. "My great-aunt," he said apologetically.

"I had one just like her," lied Katya convincingly. "Thought she knew everything and poked her nose in everywhere."

He nodded. "That's her in a nutshell." He held out a hand. "Yevgeni."

She took it and said, "Katsarina. Pleased to meet you."

They chatted harmlessly for a few minutes as Boris - "My cousin, he can't do anything else, so what else could I do?" - cooked her meal. It arrived, and after she took a bite and pronounced herself satisfied, Yevgeni left her to her meal. It was surprisingly good, in fact, but she paid it little attention, as she examined the interior minutely, though discretely. Using the bio-enhancements in her eyes, she was able to zoom in on the few suspicious-looking details. However, they all proved to be harmless, natural features in the wood, or an exposed bolt and washer, or, in one case, a squashed fly. Soon enough, she was convinced that the café had been chosen, not because it was prepped and loaded with monitoring gear, but because it was totally lacking such gear.

She pulled a wallet from her bag. "What do I owe you?"

"Thirteen rubles," he said.

Feigning clumsiness, she dropped the wallet on the floor, placing a micro camera under the bar and, incidentally, giving Yevgeni a good view of her ass. "Good thing I didn't have that drink," she joked, handing him a twenty-ruble bill. "No, thanks," she said as he went to give her back the change. "I'll just write it off as a business lunch. Can I get a receipt?" That got him turned around again, and she palmed another transmitter. "Restroom?"

"Outside, around back," he grunted.

She went out, waited in the reeking outhouse briefly, then returned, planting the bug on the door lintel, facing in. "All set," he said. "I made it look like it was a twenty-ruble meal."

"Thank you, that's easier to explain," she replied, pocketing the slip. "Da svidanya," she said, walking out.

Once out of easy sight, she hurried back to the car. Once inside she pulled out a disposable cell phone and sent J a text: "Looks clean. Planted on door, under bar." Then she went to find her hide.

=================================

Abdul Hamid got off the bus, late, he was not at all surprised, cursing the Allah-damned bastard who had sold him a ticket next to the toilet. Hoisting the backpack, he made his way down the street, looking in the mostly empty store fronts. Finally, he was at the café and, feeling the chill, entered.

It was almost crowded now, at half past one. He made his way through the tables, placing his pack on the only vacant one, and caught the waiter's attention. "Hot tea with honey, and do you have any lamb?"

"Lamb? No. Venison, I have."

"Could you make a kebab, or two?"

"Might take a few minutes."

"I can wait."

"I'll bring it to you when they're done," he was told. He sat at the table he had selected, the empty chair facing the door, rummaged through the pack until he found a battered edition of the Qur'an, which he opened at a bookmark. The tea and kebabs were dropped off ten minutes later. "Allah's blessings," he said to the waiter.

"Whatever," and he walked off.

He closed his eyes and moved his lips in prayer, then began eating. The venison kebabs were burnt, the vegetables seemed wilted, and the tea weak. Typical treatment by the infidels, but he couldn't afford to get angry, not here, not in public. When he finished, he paid his bill before asking, "Please, will you make two more? They were rather good," he lied.

"Ten minutes."

He returned to his table to read more. Eventually the second order arrived, and he set the book aside.

A large man, dark, straight hair, long beard, dark complexion, approached the table. "Excuse me."

He looked up. "Yes?"

"The waiter said you have salt, and adzhika that I can borrow?"

"I have salt, but I do not use adzhika, I don't like it," he replied, completing the signal.

The man sat down. "Abdul Hamid?"

"I must be," he said with a disarming smile.

"You have something for me?"

"In my pack, under the table." He pushed it over with a foot. "For the glory of Allah."

"Inshallah," came the reply. The pack was lifted, and the other man departed. Abdul Hamid finished the kebabs, paid again, and followed three minutes later. Two minutes after that, he was in Katya's hide and washing the dye from his face.

"Are we tracking?"

"Yes, very clear so far. He's not moving very quickly." The receiver looked like a common laptop, but with a very truncated keyboard. Instead of the common QWERTY layout, it had only a track pad, two mouse buttons, and a numeric keypad. "See? He's only about half a kilometer away, and he's not moving."

"The package isn't moving," J clarified, wiping his face with a towel. "Did you get any shots from the cameras?"

She nodded. "Already uploaded to the Valley," she said. "Two good front facial, and one side. They should be able to get a match from that."

"Good work. Pack it up. Remember, we don't have much range with this."

"You're driving," insisted Katya.

=================================

"A high priority request from Cottontail," said Kseniya, opening the file attached to the message. "The next link in the chain. They're following him but want us to run down the face." She imported the image to their facial recognition software and started the program.

"We might not have him in our database," said Vanner. "Patch it through to CIA and Russian Intel. Verify receipt and make sure they get right on it."

"Understood."

He turned to Anisa. "Any changes in activity at Kassab's location?"

She shook her head. "No, they're still waiting. I don't think they're happy, though."

"Why not?"

"There seem to have been a large number of punishment details, for one. We're picked up lots of quick fights; not even fights, just sharp words for no reason at all. They seem to be on edge."

"Speculation?"

"Something's gone wrong, and their timetable is off. Whatever was supposed to go down has been delayed, and they're uneasy."

Vanner nodded. "That fits in with the urgency and lack of subtlety in trying to acquire the tritium. At a guess, I'd say that the warheads they snatched have bad detonators, maybe even most of them, so they couldn't deploy. And that means we might just have a little breathing room." He smiled. "Good work, ladies. Inform Cottontail that we're processing her request."

=================================

"This sucks."

"Shut the fuck up, Nangle."

"Just sayin', Corp. At least you have someone to go back to the barracks to; all I have to look forward to is Puzzo's snores."

"Hey!"

"Dude, if Kwan wasn't running our asses off, I'd never be able to sleep."

The griping couldn't be heard outside of their foxhole, dug into the side of a hill. Bravo was war-gaming with the Keldara, playing the role of the defending force, after a busy week of drilling on probable routes, preset defensive positions, and coordinating with the mortar forces. Now, they got to play.

Sivula's squad was dug into a north-facing hillside, overlooking a track along a small stream. They were responsible for holding the location against, quote, "an unknown number of hostile forces penetrating from the east," unquote. The path, about a hundred meters below them, was the least-obstructed route past the hill, so he had set a single man at the military crest of the hill, keeping the eastern approach under observation. Two more were up-slope, under cover. He had kept Privates Nangle and Puzzo with him to man the SAW, while he stayed in radio contact with the mortar forces. At his word, they would drop simulated Willie Pete rounds all along the path that would, if real, blind and burn anyone unlucky enough to be there.

"Hey, Corp, can I ask you a question?"

Sigh. "What, Nangle?"

"How did you bag her so quick, anyway? Near as I can figure, you was either unconscious or asleep pretty much from when we jumped to when she hit your bed."

"That's his charm, he's best when he's not talking," added Puzzo.

"You can both shut up and watch the path," returned Sivula. "And, not that it's any of your business, but it was anything but quick. I met Jessia on the last deployment, and we stayed in touch."

"I'll bet you stayed in touch," said Nangle.

"Enough," said Sivula, warningly. "Seriously."

"Sorry." At least he sounded contrite, though Sivula knew that wouldn't take him long to start up again. "Still, how the fuck -"

No, not long at all.

=================================

"This sucks."

"Deal with it, Pavel," growled Chief Adams over the radio. "At least we're inside, and all we have to do is watch these ragheads."

Pavel's team occupied a flat across the road from Kassab's townhouse. Each of the ten men - except Braon, who, as team sniper, had his own routine - took turns watching the presumed Chechens trudge around the building, smoke cigarettes, and bitch, loudly, whenever they were together. Cottontail had wired the house to a fare-thee-well; none of 'em could piss without a Keldara knowing it. But the constant tedium of the routine, and the fact that they couldn't be really active, was wearing on them. Adams was afraid that they'd start fighting each other just to relieve the boredom. At least they'd brought an Xbox; at any given time, two or three would be playing. The current favorite was Medal of Honor.

"I don't want to deal with it, Chief. I want to kill them."

"Soon enough, Pavel. Soon enough." I hope, he added as a mental reservation.

=================================

J didn't complain about the sprung shocks, but Katya could tell that he was feeling every bounce.

The target had finally stopped pissing around in Utta after an hour, heading east out of town, and gradually south. Even though they had to stay within a mile, they didn't have any problems, nor were they really worried about being spotted. The engineer that had laid out the road had, apparently, never heard of a straight line, twisting and curving around , seemingly at random. It wasn't at all clear where they were heading. They were making pretty good time, though.

He turned west onto the R263, then north again on an unnamed dirt road several kilometers on. "Katya, are we transmitting our route back?"

"Yes, and I have it stored in the Garmin as well."

"I think we're getting close."

Sure enough, minutes later the signal came to a relative stop. They pulled parallel to the trace on the road. There was a faint automobile track, leading off into the woods to the right.

"What's around here?"

"The details are poor," admitted Katya. "There seems to be a lake to our west, called the Kek-Usn, but I don't see any named town closer than twenty kilometers," she added, zooming out.

He let up on the brake. "Mark the spot, then see if this road leads anywhere."

"Should we call in?"

"As soon as we're back on a - oof! - road," he said, hitting a particularly steep hole. "I hope it's soon."

=================================

Kseniya knocked on Vanner's door.

"What've you got?"

"We have a solid hit. Bursuk Gereshk, age thirty-four, another known follower of Inarov. Dropped out of sight five months ago. He's suspected in multiple kidnappings, three bombings, and one attack on a Russian convoy."

"Is he our mastermind?"

"Probably not. He has experience, yes, but not planning. All execution of others' plans. Some training in the Moscow Military School, now the Military Commanders Training School, before being dismissed in his second year."

"Well, it's one step closer. Pass this back to Cottontail ASAP. Then pull everything we can get on Inarov. I've got a feeling about him. I think that he's the one we need to bring down."

Kseniya looked uncertain. "I don't know."

"Why not?"

"First, he's always made a splash with his actions. Every other action he's orchestrated, he's been online announcing his genius, or in a video, or in a statement to al-Jazeera, and we've heard nothing."

"Nothing's happened yet," countered Vanner.

"But something has - the convoy being taken down. That was as clean an action as we've ever seen."

"Mmm. What else?"

"Second, it seems to be a very elaborate plan. He's usually been a point A to point B type of guy. 'You surrender or I kill hostages'-type. We don't know what the end game will be, yet, but this is a lot of work."

` "You said we don't know the end game yet. What if we do? What if he's looking to establish his Emirate in one step?"

"It's still an awfully big leap," she disagreed. "Even if that is the goal, he's had some help creating the structure to support it."

"Okay, I'll buy that."

"Finally, he's broke. I don't just mean money, though he doesn't have much of that left, either. In the eyes of the Chechens, he's not much more than a common criminal any longer. Bombing the medical clinic in Mozdok didn't go over well at all."

"Again, if he's desperate, if he's against the wall, he's probably willing to take greater risks."

"He might face an internal rebellion, though, and he can't be prepared for that. It's not thought through, not to the successful creation of his Caucasian state. I think there's something else going on here, something we're not picking up on yet."

"Possibly. Okay, concentrate on his activities in the last six months, especially any new associates. I still think that we should concentrate on Inarov. Maybe he's taking his cues from one of them, but they're almost certainly co-located. If we can find Inarov, we'll find his brain trust, too." He thought for a moment. "That Ibrahim character. What have we learned about him?"

"Still nothing. It's as if he appeared from thin air six or seven months ago. We don't have a firm grip on a patronymic, though al-Jasir and ibn Faoud have both come up. Ibrahim ibn Faoud is a slightly more known name. He appears to have been marginally connected with the Chechen rebellion for five years or so, no known links to any particular activity or event. Interpol reported a bank account in his name opened in Switzerland; they naturally suspect him in laundering money but haven't proven it."

"Typical of Interpol," interjected Vanner. "All the information and none of the convictions."

"ibn Faoud is still reported near his home. The last confirmed sighting was a month ago, before the raid, but he wasn't deemed a good prospect for increased surveillance."

"He probably isn't now, either. If he was home a month ago - that's too soon before the attack for him to be involved. Don't waste any time on him; put the word out that we want to know when he pops up again, but he's for the back burner. What about the other name?"

"al-Jasir. Son of a relatively wealthy merchant, Dharr al-Jasir, who was killed in the early stages of the war. Mother, Husniyah, also killed in the war. No known siblings. Attended university sporadically before the war, then dropped out when his parents died. No known affiliation with any rebel movement."

"What about work?"

"He seems to live on the income from his father's business, which still exists in Groznyy, run by a Russian manager. Very low profile, and not considered any kind of suspect."

"Bingo!"

"Sir?"

"It's a classic. Find an identity - I'll bet that the real Ibrahim al-Jasir died with his parents - and take it over. If he was injured during the fighting?"

"Yes, he was, he was in hospital for several weeks after -"

"After suffering severe facial injuries in a fire or explosion or something like that, right?"

Kseniya's eyes were wide. "Explosion in the family's flat, yes."

"To hide the fact that he wasn't really al-Jasir. And with a head injury, any 'gaps' in his memory would be filled in by the helpful doctors and nurses, trying to restore him to a normal life. That's our man!" He stood. "It's perfect. The manager of the business just deposits money in an account, nobody has to see him around - whoever this guy really is, he's had this contingency planned for years. That makes him a real pro, all right." He stood. "We need to figure out who this guy really is. Anything we can get on him since his hospitalization - photos especially, but business statements, phone records, rental agreements, anything will help. I want files from both sides on any agents who were inactive around the time of the attack."

"Inactive?"

"Whoever this guy is, he had another life he had to step away from while he was in the hospital."

"Ahh, I understand," she replied, nodding. "What else?"

"We can narrow it down some by physical type, height, weight, stuff like that, so grab that data too."

"You don't think they will give us the data willingly?"

"Oh, eventually, but we need now, not after debate in committee. Hack 'em." Through the open doorway, the women of the intel section looked up at that. While they weren't averse to, ahem, 'acquiring' needed information, Vanner didn't usually state it quite so directly. Plus, usually Creata's Four Blind Mice oversaw the deep hacking.

"It's not just for fun this time, ladies, no hacking into Playgirl. Find this guy and nail him!"
CHAPTER 26

Boston; Road Trip; Mt. Washington, NH

April 10

"Morning, Jack." Mike squinted up into the bright spring sun. It promised to be a warm day, a windows-down-while-you-drive kind of day. A sudden thought came to him, and he smiled. Hell if he wasn't going to take this chance.

"Morning, Sir." At Mike's look, Hughes went on. "Sorry, higher ups said it's either 'sir' or 'Kildar'."

"Fine, if that's what you have to do, but go with 'Kildar.' I was never into that 'sir' shit; I was a Petty Officer, not some damn shave-tail lieutenant." He grinned and donned his sunglasses - expensive, could double as safety glasses, and Stasia's choice. She'd become enamored of the name brand, found that they made shooter's glasses, and ordered several sets for him over the internet. Didn't matter that he held onto the cards; both she and Daria had the numbers memorized - shit. That meant that he'd have to get them all changed when Daria left, that was going to be a pain in the...

All thoughts of credit cards were wiped from his mind when a convertible cruised by the front of the hotel, top down, the driver's long blonde hair flying in the breeze, luxuriating in the early spring warmth. He remembered a certain GT, still parked on a private island because it was too closely associated with the guy who saved Florida's ass, and his earlier thoughts crystallized.

"What kind of car can we get our hands on? In short order?"

"Pretty much anything you want. If there isn't one available in the motor pools, there's a federal impound lot we can utilize."

"Pain in the ass, not worth it. Did that once with some boats in Florida; my team leader had to go way up the chain to get the lard-ass bureaucrat to shag ass. Pass. I am officially on vacation. Other options?"

"We could rent one."

"Pass again. Nothing used and tired, not today. Hmm. You have any idea where there's a Mercedes dealer?"

"I don't think they rent cars -"

Mike pulled out his wallet, extracted a sky-blue card, one he'd kept away from Stasia. "I don't want to rent. Think they'll listen?"

Jack's eyes rose above his ever-present sunglasses, Standard, Agent, One Each as he took in the card. There were something like four hundred of these cards on the whole planet, if Forbes knew what they were talking about. It made the black Amex that Stasia used - well-worn, that card was - look positively pedestrian.

"I think they will."

==================================

Timothy (Don't Call Me Tim) Johnson had been a salesman at Rich Borges' Mercedes for fourteen years. He'd seen all types come through the Somerville showplace: yuppies and techies from the 128 corridor; retirees looking for the car they'd dreamed of; college kids dreaming of what they'd drive 'someday'. This group, and especially the brown-haired guy who was obviously, though not demonstratively, in charge, were confusing the hell out of him.

For one thing, he was former service. So was Johnson. Four years in the Army had taught him one thing: he didn't want anything else to do with the Army. Oh, he appreciated the discipline they had instilled, and the money he'd used for college, and the fact that he was still a fitness nut and was in better shape than any three guys his age.

But that was past, and he was happier for it. This guy wasn't past it - or maybe he was still in it, but with that crew? Naah, out, but not beyond it. No, there was something in the way he moved, a predator, barely held in check. And, as for the way he looked, he simply exuded the air of command, one used to giving orders he knew would be followed. Then, there was also something darker about him, wrapped around him like a cloak.

The other guy was military too, but he just stood back and watched the others prowl around the showroom. That pegged him as a bodyguard, probably ex-military. Good shape, well-trained. His suit was custom, not off-the-rack like the innumerable Fibbies and other agents that crawled around the city. Johnson could tell that he was carrying but couldn't determine if he was heavy on the left or right. Definitely a pro.

Johnson loved this part of his job, figuring out the whys and wherefores of his potential customers. He knew that he could have stayed in school, become a therapist, he was that good at pegging people. More than once, buddies of his in various police departments - knowing the local cops was a necessity, selling high-end cars - had pressed him to come aboard, even part-time, to help them pick out the liars and scumbags they had to deal with. He'd always turned them down, though. He loved selling cars.

It was all about the dollars. Even in a crappy economy, he could pull commissions out of just about anyone who walked in the door - at least, anyone he targeted. He was the number one salesman, and he got first pick of the people who walked in the door.

His favorites were the recent divorcees, who had just traded in the starter wife for the trophy wife. They'd stroll in, prize clinging to their arm, and before the chimes could finish their soft announcement Johnson would be over there with a smile, a friendly and firm handshake, steering the guy to the car that would make his eye candy oh so appreciative. Hell, he ought to give some of the women part of the commission; the way they'd giggle and coo and practically crawl into their sugar daddy's lap, they'd practically make the sale for him.

Johnson could also tell the guys with too much gold, too much jewelry, diamonds in their teeth and a roll of bills that would choke a camel tucked carelessly into a hoodie pocket. He didn't want anything to do with money like that, but a sale was a sale - so he'd slide them over to some poor schmuck who was near the bottom of the totem pole, let them take the sale. Those jokers would always go for the aftermarket crap - chrome and flash, ruined the lines of the car in Johnson's eyes, which is why he wouldn't touch it. Plus, tossing the other dogs a bone kept the rest of the pound happy.

If anything, it was the two women who threw him off, and this bothered him the most. He was right so often, he just couldn't rest until he got this one pegged. He made subtle eye contact with another salesman, waved him off with a single waggling finger. Everyone else returned to their busywork, follow-up calls, letting him have all the time he needed. This group was his.

One was a tall, well-stacked blonde. Real, not fake. Maybe in her late twenties, and obviously used to luxury. She had the look, that, "Oh yes, the C-Class, perfectly fine for someone else, but I rather prefer a car with a little more panache." Miss Rich Bitch. She was quietly debating every car with the guy. So. Not a first girlfriend after the divorce, not the way she was obviously friendly with the other young lady. Curious.

The fourth member was a young, really young, redhead who was, if anything, hotter than the blonde if you didn't care about age. He'd seen her type before, never this pretty. In three, maybe five years he could see her on the cover of a magazine, some high fashion crap. She was that perfect.

Her wide-eyed amazement changed his assessment mid-stride again. She wasn't used to luxury, he could tell. She was drinking in the AMGs like a dying man stumbling across a desert oasis and hanging on the guy's - and the blonde's - every word. Johnson wasn't sure if she was a hooker or maybe, just maybe, a really adoring daughter. Yeah, that had to be it. There weren't many guys who had the brass ones to bring a prostitute car-shopping.

So. Guy, rich - how? And how much?

Has a very good - and very subtle - bodyguard, that put him way up in the stratosphere, but he'd never seen his face in Forbes, or Fortune - or had he? That face - put a moustache on it, or a beard, or, hell, just change the hair a little, and he'd be a totally different person. Later for that. Concentrate.

Military careers don't usually make too much money - did he inherit money and get his rocks off playing soldier? No, he was too good, it was too natural to be an act. Maybe he'd skimmed it out of the mess in the sandbox? With all the billions over there, it was easy enough to manage. No, again, he was simply too comfortable with himself to be that kind of scum. What about an arms dealer, to governments, not individuals? Lots of money there, and that would explain the bodyguard too.

Okay, so that makes the girl - what? Maybe a daughter from first marriage - ooh, maybe she stays with mommy and he's trying to buy her affection? Get her a first car? That would make the blonde a trophy wife, and that's where it all fell apart. No way. The women were just way too friendly with each other to be 'steps'.

No, the key here was the blonde. Figure her out, and everything else will fall into place. So. Acts like a teacher, but calmer, and no teacher ever moved with that fluidity or had that kind of style or elegance in their dress. The dress - and the redhead's, too - custom made, not even couture. She knew someone who knew someone, had their services, and that was on her own, not bought.

Think. Think. Smooth, professional, elegant. Mature. Used to putting people at ease.

Sales.

That was it, it had to be. Selling - weapons? Maybe. That would make him her boss, originally, who rescued her from the horrors of their profession. Someone who stood by him after losing the first wife? A deal went bad, the wife died at the hands of a competitor, and she had to get out? Not a trophy wife, then. Didn't have any problem bonding with the stepdaughter, obviously, because she's not trying to be stepmom.

Feeling that he finally had a handle he could use, Johnson started forward. Chat 'em up a bit for a while. Offer the women some chocolate truffles - he kept a supply in his office, made specially for him by a man who was in the business for the love of making fine chocolates - that looked like a good bet. Chocolates. Nodding to the bodyguard first, he approached the women from the side so as not to surprise them. A woman surprised would hold a grudge. Forever. And that would end any chance of making this sale.

"Morning. Timothy Johnson. I see you're looking at the 63? Best car in the showroom." The car, a bright red CLS63, was the current centerpiece. Sleek and low, it felt like a predator, waiting for its prey.

"Yeah, I need something to beat around in," said the brown-haired man, who finally met his eyes with a crooked grin that would have made Han Solo proud.

"She's got a V-8, over five hundred horsepower, seven-speed automatic, so she'll take you from zero to sixty in four point four seconds. Practical, too, if you're out on the town. Seats four in luxury you can only get in a Mercedes, oversized moon roof, and, of course, all bells and whistles the engineers could dream up. Absolutely the pride of the line."

"Michael, the wheel's on the wrong side!" said the blonde.

Ah! Foreigner. And what a delightful accent she had! "Ma'am?"

"It's built for the American market, Stasia, so the driver sits on the left."

"You live overseas?" His mind started to race again, but before he could even get out of the starting blocks he heard the words he always expected - though never quite this quickly.

"How much?"

"There's quite a wait for this model. Last I heard, orders were three or four months out. Of course, every one is custom made, to your exact specifications, exactly the options you -"

The blonde interrupted. "The roof opens?"

"Oh, yes, very easily. Just a push of a button and the inside sun shield slides back, letting all the glorious April sunshine in, push another button and the glass itself retracts. Let me show you -"

Interrupted again. This time by the man, Michael, reminding Johnson just who was going to be buying here - or not.

"I didn't ask how long, I said how much. This one."

"Oh, I can't sell you this one. Not allowed. She's the floor model, we have to have her for display. On rare occasions, we let certain, special customers take her out, just to get a feel for her. So, she's got a few miles on her. Plus, do you know how many people have come to look at her? Sat in her? It would take forever to make her smell new and fresh again."

The guy - Michael - turned and, in a voice as cold as a Boston winter, said, "You can't sell it to me? Find someone who can," and turned back to the car.

Johnson, stunned for a moment, rallied. "I mean, sir, that you wouldn't want this particular one. It's not ready to drive, it needs..." He didn't get to finish telling what it needed, as Michael turned back, this time with a predator's smile that reflected the car's attitude perfectly.

"Let's get this clear. This is the car I want to buy. I want to buy it now and drive it out of here this morning. I have places to go and I have wasted enough of my time listening to your bullshit. I'll bet if you got this car back to the garage for a fill and oil change and whatever other excuses you can think of, now, while you start processing the paperwork, we could all be happy and finished in, oh, an hour. What do you think?"

Johnson also knew when to surrender. "I think we'll get on it right away, sir."

It took seventy-two minutes by Kat's watch. That was long enough for Debra, Johnson's secretary, to take the women, bodyguard in tow, down to the confectioner's for an order of truffles, on Johnson's dime, of course. From the way the redhead was bouncing, she was now well into a full-on sugar rush.

No financing hassles. As soon as the 63 had started up, Michael handed him an otherwise-unadorned blue MasterCard, name of Michael Jenkins. Johnson was a bit dubious - it was a rather large purchase to make on credit - but the card went through practically as soon as he finished punching in the digits. Soon enough, engine tuned, governor disabled, latest generation software downloaded, the vehicle was ready to go. Without another word to Johnson, they drove off the property and turned north.

Later. Much later. Long after the dealership had closed, and Johnson had headed down the road to La Hacienda, his favorite after-work hangout. Despite the name, it was a pretty decent pizza joint, and it was his habit to order a small pesto pizza and enjoy a beer before he waited. Tonight, after assuring himself of a five-figure commission, he figured he'd treat himself and ordered a Mountain Tiger. Joe, the barkeep, had poured a stein full and set the ceramic bottle down on the bar. Johnson took a long pull, then nearly lost it all through his nose when he looked at the picture on the label.

"I will be dipped in shit," he murmured. That was the redhead, which made the money man the Tiger Beer baron, not a gun runner. And then the blonde wasn't a gun bunny turned exec. Damn, how did his radar get so far off?

"Hey, Joe, you got any promotional stuff for these Mountain Tiger beers?"

"Yeah, in the corner, why?"

"Can I grab a poster? It'll win me a bet at work tomorrow." As Joe started rooting around, Johnson continued. "You ever see a blue MasterCard? Or a black AmEx?" At Joe's grunted "No," he elaborated. "This guy - the guy who makes Tiger Beer - came in the dealership today..." By the time Joe found the poster, Johnson finished the story.

Joe was suitably impressed. "Nice."

==================================

"Why do we need a car? And where are we going?" Kat was sitting in front with Mike, moonroof way open, Stasia and Hughes in the back. Jack's longer legs - and Katrina's shorter ones - demanded that he sit behind her. Stasia? Well, she was probably cramped, but she wouldn't complain. Hell, she might even enjoy it. Winterborn was blasting from the Harman/Kardon stereo and twelve speakers. Jack looked fully relaxed for once, nodding and singing badly with the music, watching the world pass by at high speed. Stasia, like Kat, bounced in her seat, though probably with better reason, since one of the two subwoofers was directly beneath her.

Each girl clutched a golden box, 'gifts' from the salesman. Mike made the mistake - once! - of reaching for Kat's box, to examine the contents. The fierce look - and was that a growl? - quickly convinced him otherwise.

"What?" he called over the music.

Katrina repeated her question, yelling loudly enough to be heard this time.

"North!"

She laughed. "Where north?"

"There's a road you need to ride on! It'll remind you of home!" And he wouldn't say any more about it as Massachusetts, followed quickly by New Hampshire, flashed by. No police. Either it was a bad day, crime-wise, or Jack had been busier on his phone than Mike thought when he reported the change of vehicle to OSOL. They'd driven south, back into Boston, so he could drive the girls over the Zakim bridge on the way out of town - a beautiful cable-stay bridge, it was worth the detour. Then they were on 93, flying out of town, past even the most hardened commuters, the ones who would say, "Why do you think they're called 'bumpers'?"

Far too soon, they hit the 95/128 loop. Traffic slowed there as the inevitable construction zone popped up, orange barrels and cones, flaggers, the whole nine yards. Once past, though, the road was nearly deserted, and he really let the Merc stretch her legs, touching 140 a couple times before hopping onto 495 towards the coast.

Reaching over, he gave Katrina's seatbelt a sharp tug, pulling it into a more secure position and stopping, finally, her bouncing. She looked up at the movement, her eyes freezing on the old-fashioned analog speedometer. It was currently resting comfortably on 130. Nervously, she looked back at Hughes and Stasia, but they both looked relaxed. She relaxed too.

Mike peered into the back seat. Jack - was Jack asleep? Sure looked that way. And how about Stasia? This was faster than she'd ever gone on the ground, which was quantitatively different than a plane. Though, with the air rushing past the wide-open moon roof, and the almost turbine-like pitch of the engine, it was a pretty good imitation of the G550 on the runway. He adjusted the mirror to get a better look at her. Actually...

Stasia looked a little more than relaxed. It seemed that the sugar rush had been replaced by another kind of rush, one that each passed car, each tremor from the road, was intensifying. Seeing a pair of semis ahead, Mike deliberately steered as close to the sides as he could - so close he could practically see the individual rivets on the trailers as they flew by. Sure enough, Stasia screamed soundlessly and arched her back, her feet kicking into Mike's seat.

Oblivious to the byplay, Jack said, "Probably ought to slow down a bit, Kildar. Truckers are notorious for gossiping, especially about fast cars like this one. I'm not sure that the state police would be willing to ignore a direct report of a red Mercedes doing a hundred and forty."

Mike relaxed his foot on the accelerator. "Point. Besides, I think we'll have to keep her now. Stasia's christened the back seat already."

Jack looked up, confused. "Huh?"

"Stasia?"

"Yes, Kildar?"

"You've been having a good old time, haven't you?"

"Yes, Kildar." She hung her head, a secret smile playing on her lips.

"And you haven't told anyone, have you?"

"No, Kildar."

"Was it the speed?"

"And the bumps. And the music - the bass is directly beneath me and you have no idea -"

"Fine. I think you need to be disciplined. For starters - take off your top."

She began to remove the blouse, revealing her nearly perfect breasts. Only a few scars remained from her 'torture' at the hands of the late, unlamented Juan Gonzalez, one of many reasons he'd had to be put down. Sensing movement next to him, he said, "Kat! Eyes front!"

"I've seen it before, Michael, but never live. All of my lessons have been virtual, online."

"Never you mind that. Eyes front, I said. Here," he added, pointing to the nav console between them. "Figure out how to use that and see if you can guess where we're going."

At the challenge, a determined look set on her face. Unconsciously, the tip of her tongue poked out a corner of her mouth as she concentrated on mastering the German-designed, read fiendishly overcomplicated, satellite navigation system.

Jack was thoroughly bewildered now, trying desperately to keep his eyes anywhere but the sights next to him. That gave Mike an even better idea.

"Jack," he said, "you have a choice on how you think of this. You can look at is as taking one for the team, or you can take it as a bonus. No matter to me either way, but it's payback time for that lousy singing."

"What?"

"Stasia. I want you to give Jack as much pleasure as you've received since you got in the car. The catch is you can't use your hands, or his, to help you." Almost instantly, there was a zzzziiiiip - she must have used her teeth, thought Mike. Then, the only sounds from the back were Jack's sudden inhalations, punctuated by groans. In just a few moments, Jack grunted loudly, then said, "Oh. My."

Stasia didn't stop. If anything, she increased her efforts. After Jack came a second time, Mike noticed that Stasia was shaking, quivering, too. What a perfect Catch-22 he'd caught her in! She was humiliated, but all the sensations were still there, pushing her into a nearly continuous orgasm. And since she couldn't stop until Hughes had equaled her pleasure, and she was receiving more pleasure, she couldn't stop sucking on him.

Katrina had adjusted her mirror to watch, too. "Wow. He's really making a funny face! She must be doing her tongue twisty trick - she said she's never tried it on you, said she never needed to. I've got to see exactly how she does it..." And she reached to unbuckle.

"Not so fast, little one," contradicted Mike, pressing her head back against the headrest. She struggled against it, briefly, then, with a look that promised mayhem later, relented.

"How do we bring it home?" Kat asked miles later. "Or do we leave it here?"

"It's too much fun to leave here! We'll figure it out!" They had turned off the interstate onto a state highway but were still heading north through New Hampshire. Small towns flashed by, impressions of New England: white, steepled churches; colonial houses; small shops and restaurants; lots and lots of trees. The mountains they had glimpsed in the distance loomed larger and larger.

Finally, Mike said, "Stasia, you can finish him off now."

"Finish... me...?" gasped Jack, who then moaned.

Without turning, Katrina announced, "It must be the tongue twisty trick. Be warned, Michael, I will learn it before our wedding day. Stasia told me it would enslave even the strongest man. She's never used it on you; you're her Master. But in our bed...! Not even all of Kurosawa's needles will save you!"

"Ah, I meant to ask, are you spending any time - that is, is he tutoring you in anything? Seems like everyone else is."

"Definitely! He's shown me the technique he uses in the morning, to help your joints. I've got that one down, pretty well, but there's another one, he says I need more work on."

Despite every inner voice screaming, "STOP!", Mike asked anyway: "What technique is that?"

"To ensure that you survive our nights together," she answered, almost coyly. Then: "He showed me where to put the needle - it's a much bigger needle than the others! - but I haven't actually been able to practice on a live man. None of the Keldara will volunteer," she finished with a pout.

"I'm not surprised," commented Mike wryly, letting the conversation lapse.

From the back, he could hear a final, explosive exclamation from Jack, followed a moment later by Stasia's shriek - mercifully, the road noise and the stereo managed to mask it, or he'd have been deafened. Shortly, Stasia sat up, wiping a corner of her mouth with a tissue.

"Michael, we will need to stop shortly."

"Do I need to know why?"

"I seem to have soaked through -"

"Stopping." Glancing back, he noticed Jack, sprawled against the seat. "Jack, my man. Looks like you could use a sports drink or two."

"I've never - she's - man, you are one lucky SOB!"

"I agree." A grin slowly spread across his face. "Nice view through the roof?"

"Amazing. Biggest damn moon roof I've ever seen."

"Uh-huh. Does the name Allen Funt mean anything to you?"

After visibly searching his memory briefly, Jack answered, "No. Who is he?"

Mike grinned wider. "Smile, you're on Candid Camera!"

Still looking up, the dawning realization of Mike's implication spread across Jack's face.

"Fuck me."

"Basically, yeah. I'll make a call for you, make sure that anything that might have seen you - you know we probably have our own satellite, don't you? - has a little data burp. If that doesn't work, I have a couple specialists who can help you out. But, face it - I own your soul now."

"Fuck me sideways."

"This, I must see!" Katrina said, turning around in her seat before Mike could react. "Please? Show me?"

==================================

They were definitely entering a tourist area; convenience stations started popping up all over, so it was only a few minutes before Mike pulled the Merc into a parking lot.

"Okay, Jack, you go with Stasia, fetch us all drinks and something to munch. I'll make my call."

"I need to go too, Michael."

"Kat too."

Jack just groaned. "I don't know if I can move, actually."

"That's easy!" exclaimed Katrina. "Kurosawa taught me this! I need to heat a needle until it's red-hot..."

Whatever Kat was going to do with the needle was lost on Jack, as he levitated out of the car and into the refuge of the store before she could complete her thought. He had been leaning his head against the cooler door for a couple minutes when he heard a giggle behind him. He turned to see Katrina and Stasia, arm-in-arm, strolling toward the restroom, talking to a group of local girls and pointing at -

Blushing furiously, he turned away, tucked himself in, and zipped.

==================================

Mike kept up a steady stream of banter, telling the stories of the Green Frog and invasions from Canada while he was stationed, briefly, at Plattsburgh AFB.

"Why was a SEAL at an Air Force base?" asked Katrina, sensibly.

"Never quite figured that one out, but it was a good place to spend the summer. Lots of sun, big lake for swimming, great, cheap beer, and the co-eds from SUNY..." Mike caught himself before he said anything that would arouse Katrina's ire; something about ex-girlfriends and a redhead warned him off.

Neither Jack or Stasia were in any condition to hear these tales, though, as they'd both quickly fallen asleep despite the still-booming stereo. It wasn't until they were finally forced to slow, about eighty miles north, entering a town in a river valley, that they both awoke. Jack looked like he could use a shot of B-12 and about ten hours' sleep. Stasia looked perky.

Buds were just forming on the trees, and the ground still bore patches of snow. The mountains to either side, while only a couple thousand feet high, were capped in snow.

"I hope it's open," said Mike.

"WHAT is open?" demanded Kat.

"The road," he answered cryptically.

"Michael Harmon! If you do not tell us, now, where we are going...!"

"How about some chocolate?" he said instead, pulling into a parking lot by a very Bavarian-feeling building. It looked like a nineteenth-century German cottage, and there was an aroma of fudge in the air. He'd found this place on the GPS after seeing the girls' reaction to the truffles earlier in the day. He forgot, sometimes, that Katrina - and Stasia, too - didn't have much exposure to chocolate, especially fine chocolate, and thus reacted to it like a cat in a catnip patch.

"Don't go overboard while we're in there. Just a little something," he cautioned. "We'll get lunch at the top."

"Top?"

He just grinned.

The interior of the store was tiny, dominated by an L-shaped glass counter which seemed to hold every possible chocolate confection - fudges of all types; white chocolate; dark chocolate; maple sugar candy; filled chocolates, chocolates with nuts, huge bars of pure chocolate... An elaborate chocolate cuckoo clock was mounted on one wall. Behind the glass, the copper kettles and marble forming tables could be seen, though nobody was working them now. And, tucked into every possible corner, sat jars of hot fudge.

He handed each girl a hundred-dollar bill. "No credit cards."

"They take them, I saw the sign," protested Stasia.

"I know they take them, I don't want you to use them. Come on, Jack. I don't want to be present for the mayhem."

Twenty minutes later, chocolate craving satisfied, they hit the road again. This was obviously a tourist-oriented town. The restored train station, overlooking nearby mountains, was behind a large, kid-friendly park. A white gazebo sat in the park under a huge oak tree. People wandered along the sidewalks among the shops bearing 'cute' names like The Toy Box and Cool Jewels. Mike pointed to one approaching: L.L.Bean. "Best guarantee on the planet. Worth the extra money. Plus, the boots are great."

Stasia's hand reached into the front seat. Mike slowed and pulled in, handing her the black AmEx card. They had barely stopped when Kat popped out of the car, then Stasia.

"Don't take too long," Mike said from the front seat.

"Oh, no. You're coming too," she insisted. Very reluctantly, he followed, trailed by a still-hobbled Jack.

The poor sales associate who greeted them, who introduced herself as Lara, never stood a chance. Stasia was in her element, hitting department after department, unerringly zooming in on the best, most practical item, adding it to Lara's pile.

"Tell me, Lara," asked Stasia after looking over a selection of men's casual shirts and slacks, "Does your company ship overseas?"

Behind Stasia, Mike shook his head frantically, but Lara said, "Of course," anyways.

After that, it got ugly.

They managed to escape carrying three bags of goods - a pair of Maine Hunting Shoes for each, along with waterproof storm jackets - with another vast pile ordered to be shipped to a drop they used in Tbilisi. On the way out, Kat whispered to Mike, "And I got you some cute Green Frog boxers."

Hughes was holding his bag gingerly.

"Problem, Major?"

"Kildar - I'm not supposed to accept gifts from my primaries. It involves all sorts of paperwork, reports -"

"You didn't complain about Stasia's 'gifts'. Report one, report the other."

"Sergeant Schultz time again?"

"You see nottink, you hear nottink. Be happy. You ought to meet Chief Constable Tyurin sometime - ever see Casablanca?"

"Yeah."

"I swear, Tyurin models himself on Captain Renault in that movie - venal, opportunistic, always with the open palm, willing to look the other way, but committed to his job - as long as it doesn't interfere with his lifestyle."

"Sounds like a charmer."

"That, he is. Anyway, he knows when to take what is given gracefully."

"Gotcha."

"Besides, did I mention that I own your soul?" Mike smiled.

"You may have," replied Jack weakly.

"Then I don't want to hear any more about it. Okay, back in the car. Next stop, you'll find out where we're going."

Soon they were through the town and speeding along the roadway again. The pine forests grew denser and closer to the road, and the shops gradually disappeared. The road split, and they were in the woods.

"We're approaching the Presidential Range of the White Mountains," Mike finally said. "They're the northern extension of the Appalachians, so are really old and, in truth, not all that high. The tallest is only a little over a mile. I think they feel like the mountains around the Valley, though."

"They do!" exclaimed Kat. "I could feel it, too. So few people, here. That's like home as well."

"I was hoping you'd appreciate them." The forest retreated and the road widened. Mike turned left onto a gravel road and drove up to a small white building.

"Weather At Summit" read a sign. "Temperature 24 Wind Gusts to 55 mph Visibility Unlimited"

Before them loomed a mountain. Surrounded as it was by the rest of the range, it still stood alone, rising from the valley floor, past a distinct tree-line to a snow-covered summit.

"Morning, folks," said a woman from inside the building. "Planning on going up?"

"How's the road today?" asked Mike.

"Surprisingly clear, and dry," she answered. "Though it might scratch up your finish," she added.

"No worries. What's the damage?"

She peered into the car. "Four adults? Forty-seven." He handed her a fifty. As she made change, she asked, "Automatic?"

"Yeah, seven-speed."

"Drop it out of drive into a lower gear going up and go no higher than two on the way down, otherwise you'll burn out your brakes." She handed him his bills and a manila envelope. "I assume you have a CD player, not a cassette?"

"Somewhere in here," he said.

"Okay, when you're ready, put the CD in and head up through the trees." She pointed past a wooden bridge over a small stream, where the road disappeared into a stand of trees. "Enjoy your drive!"

"What did she mean, 'drive'?" asked Stasia from the back.

"This is the Mount Washington Auto Road," answered Mike. "It's an eight-mile road chiseled into the side of the mountain, from the base here right up to the summit. I've heard that the view is spectacular."

"Drive?" asked Stasia again.

"Yeah, we have to drive up it."

"We're going to drive up a mountain."

"Yes, Stasia, we're going to drive up a mountain, that one right there."

She moaned, though whether in terror or anticipation Mike couldn't tell.

"No way!" exclaimed Kat. "That is so cool!"

Mike looked at her. "Cool?"

"Isn't that what I'm supposed to say?" she asked, innocently.

Jack added, "I've done some freehand mountain climbing, but this blows that to hell. Out in Arizona, the mesa's can be pretty tall, but there's no snow. Or ice. Hate to try to freehand over that."

"My troops would call you a pussy, then. They train on worse slopes than this. Got to; one of our missions -" He stopped to think about Jack's clearance, then visibly decided, Fuck it. "We had to do a rappel, sheer ice cliff, maybe five hundred feet. Everyone else down but me. Don't know if it was bad placement, bad knots, or just rotten luck, but as I'm lowering my ass down, I feel the belay pins giving way. Pang! I drop and stop. I'm moving faster, waiting for the next one to go. Sure enough, pang! Another drop, another stop. I'm dangling, maybe a hundred feet up, far enough so I'll just make a big wet splat when the last pin goes. So I start the single fastest rappel I have ever done, nearly burn through a glove, and just as I'm about to touch down the last pin goes and I drop the last few feet. The rope comes down after me, and the Keldara waiting for me tells me how impressed he was that I managed to retrieve the fucking rope!"

"It wasn't time for the Valkyries to fetch you, Mike," Kat said in a subdued voice, totally unlike her usual tones, her eyes unfocussed, looking at everything and nothing. Every hair on Mike's body stood on end. He knew that she was training to be a priestess, but he was a rational, twenty-first century American, not some backwater tribal warrior. This was sure as hell a trance, though. She continued.

"You still had much to do. You still have much to do. The Keldara need you, those around the Keldara who struggle to rebuild need you. Loki comes for you and yours soon. You must be ready. You must be pure of heart when the time comes." She slumped, eyes closing, then just as quickly sat upright again.

She blinked. "What?"

Stasia recovered first. "Nothing, Katrina, dear. Are you feeling well?"

Katrina turned and glared. "I had a vision, didn't I?"

"I suppose you did," said Mike. "You didn't seem to be...here."

"What was the vision? I don't remember them. Mother Lenka says that I can glimpse through the gates of chaos because of the way my mind works, but the cost is I cannot keep the memory."

"It didn't make too much sense," said Stasia, sensing Mike's reluctance to talk about himself. "Something about Loki, and Valkyries."

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Kat sighed. "Fine. But when it comes to pass, you'll tell me?"

"Of course, dear," said Stasia.

"I need to learn to control these things." And she would say no more.

The CD was an audio tour, designed to be informative and amusing. They learned that the road was opened in 1861, that the first car ascended in 1899, and the fastest ascent took less than seven minutes. Obviously, it was quite an operation. Signs that winter still had the mountain firmly in its grip were abundant. In places, the snow on the upslope side rose eight or ten feet above the car, while a precipitous drop loomed down slope. Kat was pivoting in all directions to absorb all the scenery; Stasia had her eyes clamped shut.

She'd moan heavily as her breathing increased, her imagination running wild, then she'd take a deep breath, open her eyes and look around. Slam them shut again, wiggle in the seat, grip the three-point safety belt even as her body betrayed her, again and again. Mike added to the torture, stopping several times at corners, tricking her into opening her eyes to look and seeing that there was nothing below her side of the car.

Mike found it all relaxing. The CLS gripped the roadway, providing sure going, the heated seat kept him pleasantly warm, and the joy on Kat's face - well, that made it all worthwhile. Still, that vision. He was going to have to talk to Mother Lenka about that when they returned.

About a half-hour later, they parked just below the summit. The wind was whipping past, slicing through their clothes and chilling them in seconds. Out came the bags, and the coats and the Hunting Shoes.

"Up there!" said Mike, pointing to stairs chiseled into the bones of the mountain. They hurried up, emerging onto the broad summit, bathed in blinding sunlight reflecting off the snow. They could see a rough-hewn rock building with a nearly flat roof, snow piled high to one side, rock exposed on the other. Other buildings, barely distinguishable from the blasted-on snow, poked into the air, while three or four radio towers loomed overhead. One began as an ice-encrusted framework, about thirty meters tall, with a more modern-looking tower extending another thirty meters above. Ice streamed horizontally from every surface, blown and frozen in place by the constant winds. Another low building, completely covered in rime, seemed to be chained to the ground. Kat pointed at it, Mike shrugged. They made their way off to the right, to a large, curved, modern-looking building, and entered its warmth gratefully.

They were in the main building of the Mount Washington State Park. It housed a museum, highlighting the history of the Mount Washington Observatory over the years; a cafeteria; and a gift shop. They seemed to be the only visitors, so they split up again. "Observation deck's still closed, folks," said an employee. "If you want to see the view, you'll have to go back outside. The museum is open though."

"Coffee?" asked a shivering Stasia.

"In the cafeteria," she was told, and that's where she went.

Mike led Kat to the museum. "I knew it would be windy up here, but damn!" he said, reading a sign. "That's a wind! 'On April 12, 1934'," he read, "The highest wind speed ever recorded by man was measured here.' Two hundred and thirty-one miles per hour. I can't even imagine that!"

"Look! Here's a picture," pointed Kat. In it a person, dressed heavily, was leaning at nearly a forty-five-degree angle into a fierce winter wind. "And here, Michael - those are chains! The caption says that the observation hut is chained down to prevent it from being torn off the mountain."

"I guess it really is 'Home to the World's Worst Weather.' Remind me to never bitch about the snow back home again."

"And I, Michael! Even the night you found me, would not be so bad!"

A few minutes more and they joined Stasia and Hughes, who were thawing nicely in the cafe. "No beer, Michael," said Stasia. "Park rules. I asked."

"Coffee's good, though," supplied Hughes. "Doughnuts, not so much. Recycled, I think." He tossed the offending pastry to Mike. "I saw some hockey gear behind the door. I think these crazy fuckers play hockey when nobody's around. Guess it's that or go batshit up here after a few weeks."

Mike didn't know whether to laugh or throw the half-pound grease sponge back at Jack. It did indeed look like it would make a good hockey puck, though. "Jack - wonder if they did slap shots for distance off the peak? Wonder what you'd shout to warn the people below? Not 'Fore!', that was golf. How about - HOBEY BAKER!" he ended, shouting.

Jack fell over off his chair, laughing in spasms until an attendant came over to check on him.

Katrina supplied the excuse. "He ate one of the doughnuts."

"Poor sap."

==================================

They ventured out again, only to be driven back in, Stasia's lips already blue, Katrina shivering. Their waterproofs might be that, but they weren't windproof or cold proof. Into the store they went. Out came the credit card. Even the limited choice the shop provided enough retail therapy for Stasia to recover quickly. She even found flannel boxers for herself and Katrina, though it did prompt a question.

"I thought these were men's clothes?"

Mike had to explain about the fad, starting with women borrowing men's clothing when they spent the night at his place and didn't have a change. They discovered that they were more comfortable to wear, so soon enough a minor industry sprouted supplying men's-style boxers fitted for women.

After equipping themselves with Mount Washington-adorned gear, they ventured outside again to experience a little of the wind first-hand. They stood near the chained-down hut, peering into the distance. Mountains stretched off in all directions, but to the southeast they could make out a shimmer of blue. "The Atlantic Ocean, I think," said Mike.

"How far away is it?"

"No idea, but it's gotta be at least a hundred miles." Mike climbed easily to the summit, marked with a wooden cross, followed quickly by Kat. "Hold it!" called Stasia, "I need to take your picture!"

"Hurry!" called back Kat. Her hair, peeking out around the hood, flew across her face. "I'm ready to go down!" Seeing Stasia's reaction, she turned to Mike and laughed. "Not like that!"

"Damn!"

Photo taken, Stasia allowed them to descend. "You want me to take a shot, Stasia?"

"No, I'm cold too."

Kat, turning back to the stairway, exclaimed, "A cloud! There's a cloud down there!" Mike looked in time to see a white cloud hurry past the side of the mountain below them. "It's like flying!" she said. "Or not - I don't know!"

"It's fantastic!"

"It's cold!" said Stasia firmly, heading for the stairs. "I'm going back to the car!"

It seemed like a good idea.

"Ready?" asked Mike when they were all enclosed, engine running, heater blowing, seats heating, and gear stowed. "This is where it gets interesting."

Stasia moaned again.

"Down is going to be more difficult. Between the wind, and gravity, it's going to be tough to keep this car on the road." He surreptitiously squeezed Kat's hand. "How fast should we take it?"

"Michael, I love you and trust you, but you will not get us killed in a car accident before my wedding!"

"Your wish is my command," he replied, grinning widely. "Stasia, Kat's saved your ass." He backed out, dropped the car into '2', and started slowly down the mountain.

One thing was for sure, he was not letting Vanner or - God Forbid! - the Four Blind Mice anywhere near this beauty when he finally got her home! The computer was just fine the way it was, thank you very much. The idea of them tinkering around with the software gave him an involuntary shiver.

The first half-mile went smoothly. Then, as they were approaching the first sharp curve, a sudden blast of wind, rushing up the mountainside, pushed the car toward the cliff-like snow face. Mike reacted instinctively, turning against the wind and applying power. The tires spun then gripped, propelling the heavy car away from the looming snow, but now the low rocks along the drop rushed toward them. Mike whipped the wheel to the left, hit the gas, then, as the car hurtled toward the snowface spun back to the right and mashed the brakes, sliding the tail of the car around the curve and back to a straight line. He put the car in its lowest gear and stopped.

"Everyone okay? Kat? Stasia?"

Kat was pale, but her eyes were shining. "It all seemed so slow! I could see the wall and the edge of the cliff and the snow flying and I heard the brakes and saw you looking and thinking and...!"

"Slow? It couldn't've taken more than two seconds."

"So little?"

"Stasia? How about you?" She was gripping the door handle tightly enough to whiten her knuckles. Between clenched teeth, she ground out, "Get. Me. Down. This. Mountain. Now."

"Hughes?"

"That was a rush! But I have to agree with the lady. We should get down the mountain."

Mike started off again. He hugged the upslope side of the road, even when it put him on the left side, the rest of the way down. He puzzled a little over what Kat said. He knew from experience that, in intense combat, the same thing happened to him. During the so-called 'Charge of the Kildar,' he could recall seeing individual bullets rifling through the air all around him. His reactions were faster, his thoughts clearer. Whether that was adrenaline or training or something else, he didn't know. But it seemed, possibly, that Katrina had it too. That could explain her abilities in hand-to-hand training.

Hmm.

His thoughts were interrupted as they approached the road.

"Now where?" asked Kat.

"A real lunch, and I've got to make a few calls, figure out how to get this baby back home," he answered, patting the dashboard. "Don't think I want to leave her behind."

==================================

Gloria at Chatham Aviation was perfectly happy to arrange transport for the Mercedes. "Just leave it at Logan and we'll pick it up," she told him.

"Stasia, do we have a place laid on in St. Louis?" he asked as they drove south again.

"Not yet, Kildar," she said. "I wasn't sure when we would be arriving. I'll call now, though."

While she called from the back seat, Mike called the caravanserai.

"Keldara House, Illia speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Illia, it's the Kildar. Put me through to Vanner."

"Right away, Kildar." A quick silence, then, "Vanner."

"We are not secure. Any news?"

"We've got some leads that look really promising."

"Anything short-term?"

"Not immediate, but maybe in a week or so. Of course, something might break earlier than that, but..."

"I understand. Call me if anything changes."

"Will do." He hung up and dialed another number.

"Lowell."

"Mike Jenkins here."

"Hey, Mike! Did you get the jackets?"

"We did, thanks. Did you get the beer?"

"You bet we did! Tasted even better after that win."

"I'll bet it did! Nice hit in the third, driving in Bay."

"Felt good to get that first one out of the way," Lowell admitted. "Been a while since I swung a bat that well. What's up?"

"We're headed back into town, and wondered if you and Ortiz were free tonight?"

"Sorry, no, got a game tonight at seven."

"Bummer. Maybe next time, then. And don't worry about the beer - I've arranged with the local distributor to have two cases per game dropped off at the park."

"Fantastic! Any time you're in town, you and your fiancée are welcome in the clubhouse."

"Great. Good luck tonight."

"Thanks!"

Again, he hung up and dialed.

"Hardesty."

"Jenkins. Have the packages arrived?"

"Indeed they have! Bloody hell!"

Mike chuckled. "I knew it was going to be bad, but that bad?"

"That bad."

"Well, the good news is we're on our way back to the city and should be at the airport in a couple hours. Can you be ready to go?"

"Certainly. Where are we going next? I need to work up a flight plan."

"St. Louis."

"Simple enough. Give me a ring when you've cleared security."

"Will do."

He put away the phone. "Okay. We're off to Logan, then St. Louis. We ought to be there by dinner. Stasia, get a hotel yet?"

"Presidential suite at the Four Seasons."

"That'll do."
CHAPTER 27

Somewhere in Chechnya; The Caravanserai; Moscow; Washington DC; St. Louis

April 10

"I want my bombs!"

"Excellency, the men are working -"

"I want my bombs!"

"Soon, Excellency, soon, we will -"

"I want my bombs! No more excuses, Ibrahim!"

Ibrahim thought furiously for a moment. "The reclamation of tritium is proceeding as quickly as we can safely manage, Excellency. Any faster and we risk the lives of our men."

"Risk them! But get me my bombs!"

"Of course we shall. I merely awaited your command. Even so, it will take time to rearm all the bombs, especially since we are still awaiting our deliveries."

"Why do we wait? Are our followers so inept?"

"No, Excellency, there seems to be problems at the sources. We divided the amount needed among many vendors to avoid arousing suspicion, but as yet we have only received one delivery of tritium. It was a fair-sized amount, though. We may be able to complete reactivating three weapons."

"Then give me my three so we can emplace them!"

"Excellency, your desire is, of course, my command, but may this unworthy one ask a question?"

"Ask."

"Excellency, the plan was to place all the bombs in the target cities at the same time, was it not?"

"It was. The plan has changed."

Ibrahim's swarthy face showed worry for the first time. "What is the plan now, Excellency?"

"You will take the three weapons you repair and place them in Groznyy, Moscow, and Makhachakala. We will demand that the Russian puppets in Chechnya and Dagestan step down immediately, and that the godless Russians recognize the Emirate or we detonate the bombs."

"But what of the rest of the Emirate?"

Inarov waved his hand dismissively. "Soon enough. Allah has blessed us, Ibrahim, and will not allow us to fail. We simply need to accept his changes to the plan. Once the Emirate controls Chechnya and Dagestan, we will have some breathing room and time to advance our destiny."

"Very wise, Excellency. May this one make a suggestion?"

"You may suggest."

"Your wisdom in targeting Groznyy and Moscow is impeccable, yet I am troubled. If we take the three weapons available - and they will be complete in no more than three days, Excellency - and ignore the threat the Keldara present, I fear that our works will be undone."

"You fear, Ibrahim? Your faith wavers."

"Perhaps I misspoke, Excellency. Shai'tan is clever; the Prophet has warned us to ignore his temptations. Yet I feel if we were to focus to greatly on reclaiming these lands for Allah, and not remove the viper in our midst, the Keldara, then we would provide Shai'tan the opening he needs to undo our efforts."

Now it was Inarov's turn to think. "You truly believe these Keldara are that much of a threat?"

"Excellency, outside of the Greater and Lesser Satans, there are no more dangerous foes in the world."

"What, then, do you suggest?"

"We will take two bombs, one to Moscow, one to Groznyy. We will gain our freedom thereby. Allow me to take the third bomb and wipe the Keldara from the pages of history!" Ibrahim fell silent and waited.

Finally, Inarov spoke. "There is wisdom in your words, Ibrahim. Forgive me for doubting your faith; I should have known that you only thought of the greater good. Very well! As soon as the bombs are ready, we will execute your plan."

"Thank you, Excellency. I shall not fail you."

"I know you won't."

================================

"At least we know his name now."

Katya's comment seemed to go unnoticed by J, so she elaborated. "Bursuk Gereshk."

J looked up from the map he had been poring over. "What does that mean to us?"

Katya looked unsure. "We can use his name as a way to enter his circles?"

"And if they ask for a code, or a password?"

"Then we take them down."

"Just when I think you've gotten over your need to kill, padawan, it rears its ugly head. No, we don't take them down, not until we're told to."

"Master, then I am confused. What of the two men in Elista?"

"They could have identified us and made our task more difficult," he explained. "We needed Hamid to get to Gereshk, and we needed Gereshk to locate their position. Now, we observe, and wait."

"I hate waiting."

================================

"Another report from Katya. They have a location!"

"Where?"

Grez pointed to a monitor. "There, just to the east of Lake Kek-Usn."

"They're sure?"

"She stated that Gereshk brought the tritium there and has not yet left. Unless he's waiting for another contact?"

"It's possible. That would seem to be out of character, though, given the haste they're trying to collect the tritium."

"That's what I thought, too."

"We need to bring this upstairs."

================================

Nielson was happy. "How far away is this lake?"

"Straight line? About three hundred fifty klicks. Of course, there's no such thing as a straight line around here." Vanner shrugged. "We'd have to detour way around Chechnya at the very least. Figure six, seven hundred klicks at least. More, if the roads are blocked."

Adams looked thoughtful. "Two days drive?"

"About that," said Vanner. "Maybe a little less if everything goes well, but probably not much more."

"If everything goes well. Riiiight." Chief Adams had a long, and frequently painful, association with Murphy.

Nielson interrupted with, "Okay. Chief, call Chechnik and explain the situation to him. Nicely," he added, seeing the malicious grin on the Chief's face. "I'll talk with OSOL, coordinate with the alphabet soup, and get that area under constant observation." He thought again and waggled his fingers at the ceiling with a half-smile. "Make sure they've moved the eyes in the skies."

More seriously, he continued. "We've got to get this dialed in. If we're going to commit to this site, we need to be sure of the target. We wait until we're absolutely sure the nukes are there before we engage."

"What if they move the nukes before we get there?"

"Point, but that's why we need it under observation. Still - I'll get the teams mobilized and the choppers loaded. Put the Rangers on notice. I want to be ready by dawn. I expect it will be a few days, though."

"And Mike?"

"I'll call him, as well." He said this with some reluctance, unwilling to interrupt the Kildar's first real vacation in, well, forever.

Adams said, "If he misses the concert, he'll be pissed."

"He'll be more pissed if he misses the movement."

================================

"Colonel Chechnik's office, Lieutenant Malakov speaking."

"I asked for Chechnik."

"I am the Colonel's aide. How can I help you?"

"If I wanted to talk a miserable piss-ant who isn't fit to lick my boots, I would have asked for you! I asked for Chechnik, and you're going to connect me. Now. Tell him it's Adams."

"Hold." Malakov put the phone down. This assignment sucked, but was better than the other choices: Siberia, or an unmarked grave. Putin wasn't entirely convinced of Chechnik's loyalty, and so Malakov had been tapped for the job of spying on one of the nation's spymasters. "Colonel? There's someone named Adams on the line for you."

"Adams? What does he want?"

"He wouldn't tell me. He insisted on talking to you."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Chechnik picked up his extension. "Master Chief. How can I help you today?"

"You can tell your aide that when I call it's fucking important!"

"My apologies. It won't happen again."

"Good. Colonel, we have a possible location for the nukes."

Chechnik sucked in his breath. "So quickly?"

"Yeah, we don't screw around. We need some help on your end, though."

"Anything at all!" Chechnik scrabbled for a pen. "What can we do for you?"

"We have agents in the area, but we need constant observation. Any movement in or out, we need to know when it happens."

"Where do you need this?"

"It's the eastern shore of Lake Kek-Usn, in Kalmykia."

Chechnik considered this. "We may not have the resources to maintain constant surveillance," he admitted. "Our technical means are not usually slated for Russian overflight."

"I'm aware of that, Colonel. Whatever coverage you can provide. Doesn't have to be aerial; a couple fishermen with good cameras will help. But we need it. Right now."

"Very good. What else?"

Now Adams paused. Chechnik had fucked them over once before, but he didn't see any alternative. Sooner or later, they'd have to tell him of their movements. "We will be taking the site out. Timetable is still up in the air, but we will be moving on it shortly. Overflight for our Hinds and customs clearance for our teams should have already been approved. If it hasn't, get it done. And road conditions for our route."

"Certainly, certainly!"

"Multiple sources, Chechnik. And no troops on the ground; one thing we don't need are the locals blowing the whistle on us."

"I understand, Master Chief. I have done this before." Chechnik's voice was cold. "Overflight has been granted, I know; I'll ensure that you have easy passage through customs at your entry point, though knowing at least the primary route will allow for better data."

Adams ignored the obvious attempt for information. "Good. Once we have the route planned, I'll download it to you personally." He allowed his tone to turn menacing. "Don't screw this up, Chechnik."

Chechnik heard the click, then, a second later, another click.

Fuck me. He had suspected, of course, that there was a spy in his office. Too much information had flowed the other way to be explained otherwise. He was insulted, though. At least Vlad could have given the job to someone competent, instead of Malakov, the worthless mudak.

He pulled his service pistol from the drawer. Well, a service pistol. Actually, it had been signed out by Malakov - at Chechnik's request. That would just make it more believable when his aide, torn between two loyalties and suffering from PTSD, committed suicide in the Colonel's office. It was going to be messy, but...

"Lieutenant? Will you come in here a moment?"

================================

"Pierson."

"Colonel, Nielson here. Sorry to be calling so early."

"No problem. At least I was able to get in before the calls started today. What can OSOL do for the Keldara today?"

"We may have the nukes located, but we need surveillance. We've asked the Russians to keep it under observation, but -"

"Let me guess, they don't want to admit that their satellites watch their people just as closely as they watch us."

"Bingo."

"Okay, let's see here... We have enough recon satellites to keep it under our umbrella 24/7. Do you want updates, or the raw feed?"

"I think just the feed. Make sure we get it all - deep scans, infra-red, the works. We can monitor it just as well from this end. Plus, no offense, we have a very direct stake in this."

"None taken."

"What about Predators? Can you shake some loose for low-level recon?"

"I'll work on it, but they're pretty thoroughly tasked. It might take a day or two to get them on-station." Pierson thought. "But I may be able to get a U-2 for you."

"You think the Russians will go for that?"

"I don't think they have any choice. Mike was pretty brutal with them, I heard."

Nielson chuckled. "He was, at that. Seriously, I thought all the 99th's birds were tied up?" The 99th Reconnaissance Squadron was based, officially, at Beale Air Force Base, and was supporting the American missions in Iraq and Afghanistan, a demanding duty that required most of their airframes.

"I wasn't thinking of the 99th, but you're right. No, I was thinking of the 42nd Recon."

"42nd? Pardon me, Colonel, I didn't think there was a -"

"42nd? Not on most books, no. This program's as black as they come. A few years back, they scratch-built a dozen new U-2s, designated the U-2V, with a second seat, state-of-the-art avionics, upgraded engines, and, most importantly, improved sensors that can maintain a constant air-to-ground feed."

"Never heard of them."

"Exactly the point. They belong to the Air Force, officially, but the National Reconnaissance Office operates them. I know that they are under-utilized at the moment. The only catch is I know the NRO won't allow you to take the direct feed."

"We'll live with that, if we can have 'em."

"See what I can do. Anything else?"

"Not at the moment, Colonel."

"Very well. I'll get back to you as soon as I have any answers, one way or another."

================================

"Mike, it's Dave."

Mike had awakened at the first ring from the sat phone, climbing quietly from the bed. Katrina wiggled a bit but didn't seem to wake. "Yeah?"

"We've got some movement."

That brought Mike fully awake. "How soon?" He was already thinking of flight times.

"Not soon. Four days, minimum."

Mike relaxed a little. "Where?"

"In Kalmykia, north of the Chechen border. Cottontail and J followed a tritium packet there."

"I can be back -"

"Whoa! We can handle this part. Besides, isn't the concert tonight?"

"Yeah, but -"

"No buts, Mike. We can handle this. You enjoy the show and fly back tomorrow. That'll give you plenty of time."

"Time?"

"Yeah, time to think of an excuse for Cottontail. You think she's gonna be happy you saw Cruxshadows without her?"

"Fuck."

"See you in a couple days."

================================

"O Great One, I have wonderful news!"

"Yes, Ibrahim?"

"We have completed the rearming process on three of the bombs."

"Which three?"

"Two of the large weapons, the five megaton and the two megaton; and a small one, one hundred kilotons."

"That is good news, Ibrahim! Proceed with the plan immediately!"

"Excellency, of course we shall. I will dispatch the largest to Moscow, naturally, and shall oversee the movement of the next-largest to the Valley of the Keldara myself."

"No!"

"Excellency?"

"The next-largest, the two-megaton bomb, that should go to Groznyy, not the Keldara."

"Excellency, perhaps you are not aware of the scope of the Valley?"

"It is a single valley, Ibrahim!"

"It is a veritable pit of vipers, Excellency, and needs to be scoured clean!"

"No, it is a source of annoyance which you seem to have an unhealthy obsession with. Again, I ask you, why do we need to waste a weapon on a bunch of barely-past stone age barbarians?"

"They are a grave threat to the security of the Emirate!"

"So you say, Ibrahim. But my other advisors do not feel the same."

Ibrahim's usually-calm voice rose in anger and frustration. "Have they forgotten the crippling blow these infidels inflicted on our cause, so little time ago? The best, most dedicate, most skilled of our fighters butchered in the field, slaughtered by the accursed women? Are they afraid?"

Ibrahim pushed his luck a little too far.

Inarov leapt from his seat and backhanded Ibrahim off his feet. Ibrahim hadn't thought he could move that quickly. "They - and I! - fear no one! We are the tools of Allah's destiny!" He fumed before continuing. "I should have you killed for your impudence."

"Excellency, kill me if you desire, but you must listen! The Keldara must, must, be eliminated!" He assumed the tone on one shamed, and begging forgiveness.

"You truly believe this?"

"I do, Excellency, more than you can imagine."

"Are you willing to stake your life upon it?"

"I am, Excellency. The Keldara must die."

Inarov sat back in his chair. "Very well, Ibrahim. Your willingness to die for your belief speaks well of you. I respect your commitment. You shall have a bomb, the smallest one we have ready, and transport, and men. Be warned: one of those men shall be given orders to shoot you if your faith, your belief in this mission, wavers, even slightly."

"I accept." He hesitated a moment. "I shall need quite a few men, Excellency."

"It's only a single bomb. How many would you need?"

"The Keldara are ferocious fighters. If I am to have the smallest bomb, I shall need to get into their valley properly, instead of staying outside and depending on the blast radius to wipe them out. They will defend their homes, Excellency, men and women alike. We will have the element of surprise, yes, and that will work in our favor. Yet I still think that I will need, perhaps, three hundred men."

Inarov was apoplectic. "Three hundred? Impossible!" And Ibrahim would need fighters, not support, not the misfits. They would have to stay behind.

"Necessary, Excellency. That will barely give me a two-to-one advantage. Less than that, and I cannot guarantee success. And since I am staking my life on the success of this mission..."

"We have barely twice that, total!"

"Yet you will hardly need that many here. We are undiscovered -"

"So far."

"So far, yes Excellency. Our men are already in Groznyy; you will not need to dispatch any more for that. Since we are relying on stealth for the cities, the plan for Moscow calls for a dozen men, including two technicians, and a leader. That will leave you with nearly three hundred. And once we return, your security will be guaranteed. Once the people see the glorious results of your actions, they shall flock to your cause, as numerous as the grains of sand in the holy deserts. Yes, we shall be vulnerable here briefly - but we shall emerge victorious and more powerful!"

"Very well, Ibrahim, you shall have -" He paused, as if considering, making himself look generous, and merciful. "Yes, you shall have your three hundred." He scowled at the look on Ibrahim's face. "What else?"

"Excellency, to move that many men quickly, I shall need to utilize the vehicles we have secretly repaired."

Sigh. "Is this truly necessary? No, don't speak; I know your answer. You may have your transports, too. How soon do you plan to leave?"

"Tomorrow, before dawn, we dispatch the bomb to Groznyy, and the team to Moscow with theirs. I shall leave at noon."

"Noon? Is that wise?"

"Excellency, with so many men, even a blind Russian satellite could see us, day or night. Who would think that we would risk such a precious cargo on such a daring plan?"

"Audacious indeed! Allah's blessings be with you, Ibrahim."

"Thank you, Excellency." Without another word, Ibrahim bowed his way backward out of the room, never looking up at the Emir, never letting the contempt that Kurt felt for him show on Ibrahim's face.
CHAPTER 28

St. Louis

April 10

So much for the vacation, Mike thought after the phone call.

The flight to Lambert St. Louis International had been uneventful. Of course, getting out of the airport, even with Hughes' connections, had taken time, and getting to their hotel even more. Traffic from the airport to the hotel had been murder; he'd been away so long, he'd forgotten about timing and traffic patterns. If only he'd taken a little more time in Boston - there wasn't any rush to get here. No, he'd simply forgotten. That's why OSOL gave you a guide, jackoff, he reprimanded himself. Ask questions!

At least there was a bright spot at the end of the smog-choked rainbow. The Four Seasons itself was a dramatic glass structure rising by the Mississippi, only a few blocks north of the Gateway Arch. They had mercifully whisked through check-in and were soon settled into their suite on the 19th floor.

"Michael, do we have plans tonight?" asked Kat.

"No, the show's not until tomorrow night. Why?"

"It's been a very busy few days. I don't feel like going out," she admitted.

"Suits me. I'm for dinner, then take it easy. Don't I remember seeing a restaurant in the hotel? Or do we want to go out?"

"There is one, called Cielo," said Stasia. "I had asked. They serve Italian cuisine. There is room service - or I'm sure we can arrange a private chef..."

"No, if we're in St. Louis, we've got to have barbeque."

"I can ask the concierge?" said Stasia.

"That'll work. Take a half hour to freshen up, change, then we'll hit the desk and see what we can see. And don't dress fancy! Barbeque, especially ribs, can be messy!" They had divided, cleaned, and reformed, refreshed and ready for dinner. Jack was ready first, in jeans and a sports jacket that easily concealed his piece. Mike was thinking of going heavy; this was St. Louis, after all. But he eventually settled on ensuring that Stasia's pink Tanfoglio Lady Witness 9mm was loaded and in her clutch. He didn't want to actually carry tonight and having to rely on a pink gun would help; after the traffic clusterfuck, the need to kill someone was running high.

The concierge naturally tried to steer them to the in-house restaurant. "Italian, I can get anywhere. Hell, I can do Italian!" Mike insisted.

"What you want is Pappy's!" said a desk clerk. Her nametag read Emily.

"Pappy's?"

"Pappy's Smokehouse, out on Olive Street. Best barbeque in town! And you have got to try their five-way!"

"Sounds kinky." The clerk had the decency to blush. "How do we get there?"

"It's not too far, only twenty blocks west or so."

"We just flew in, and it's been quite a day. Can we get a cab?"

The concierge, trying to recover Mike's good graces, said, "Sir, I can have the hotel limo bring you there and back. It's a complimentary service that comes with the Presidential Suite."

Emily interrupted. "And they shouldn't be sold out, either! The Cards aren't in town this week."

"Sold out?" said Kat.

"It takes a long time to do barbeque right. When they get busy, they run out of food early."

"Then let's stop jawing and move! Emily, thanks!" Mike called over his shoulder, following the suddenly eager-to-please concierge to the VIP exit.

The limo was prompt and delivered them to the restaurant quickly. It was an unimpressive brick building with a plainly lettered sign above the door. "That's a good sign," said Mike, pointing. A bright neon "OPEN" was still lit. "Let's get in before they change their mind."

The interior didn't reflect the plain exterior. The walls, painted yellow above and red below, were covered with pictures, photographs, and t-shirts. Around the ceiling ran a shelf with what appeared to be every barbeque sauce known to man. And, to top it off, a life-sized pink ceramic pig stood in front of them. All this before they even began to take in the family-style dining room. It was a large space, liberally filled with tables covered with red-checked tablecloths. To the left was an ordering queue, with handwritten menus mounted above. They examined these for a few moments.

"'Pulled pork'? 'Beef brisket'? Michael? And what is an 'Adam bomb'?"

"What the hell - Frito pie?" added Hughes. "Haven't seen that in years. Doesn't matter, I'm going for the Adam bomb - that must be the five-way."

"Let's just go order," said Mike and, suiting action to words, moved up to the register.

"Howdy!"

"Evening. I think two rib combos. What do you suggest for the meats?"

"I'd go with the brisket, pork, or the turkey."

"Turkey? Okay, brisket and turkey it is. Sides. How about a beans, a slaw, a sweet potato fries, and potato salad? Four soft drinks. And the junkyard dog behind me wants an Adam bomb."

"Sides for that?"

"Surprise me," said Jack.

"And your name?"

"Mike," he answered, the question in his voice.

"We'll call your name when it's ready. Should be just a few minutes, we're not real busy right now. Y'all just go have a seat."

True to her word, less than five minutes later Mike heard his name, and turned around. A server saw him and came, bearing a heavily loaded tray. The platters were unloaded and, with a minimum of conversation, attacked. Jack, with the zeal of a man long denied, didn't say two words until the platter was more than half gone. Then, groaning, he sat back and said, "You'll have to finish it. I can't eat another bite."

They did.

Shortly, satisfied and full, Mike sat back. "That is something I have missed! What did you think, Kat?"

"Different, very different."

"Did you like it?"

"I liked the, I think it was beef?"

"Brisket, yeah."

"Brisket. That was very good, very tender. And the turkey, too."

"I enjoyed the slaw, too," added Stasia. Though, it appeared that she was annoyed that the napkins were paper, not cloth. Very undignified. And very difficult to stay clean. "Very similar to something we made for the sheik, but sweeter."

"It's made from cabbage, so that doesn't surprise me." Rolling slightly, they rode back to the hotel and went to bed.

Now, after Nielson's call, Mike lay awake. Part of him itched to return, to get back to the valley, to finish preparing for the mission. He needed that rush, he knew. The heat of battle fulfilled his sense of duty, as well as satisfying his appetite for destruction. It was when his two halves merged most completely, and he could allow the rage that flowed through him free rein.

But he hated planning, he hated preparation, and he hated waiting. He always had, even in the Teams. The sense of his edge slipping away frustrated him and got him too focused internally. It took a real effort to drag his attention back outwards to the needs of the day. He much preferred encountering a situation and dealing with it.

They'd stay for the show, then fly back. That was the plan.

"Michael?" Kat's sleepy voice brought him back.

"Kat?"

"Did someone call?"

Options flashed. Lie, say nobody called? No. Tell her some of the truth, that it was Nielson checking in? No. "Nielson. The nukes might be in play." Even as he said it, he felt the rightness. If he was taking this girl - no, dammit, woman - as his wife, she would share his life fully. That meant being included in planning and executing missions. He hadn't thought it out, before, but as a supersaturated solution would crystallize instantly, so too did his decision. He felt her tense.

"How soon? Do they need you now?" She hoped not. She was enjoying her time away from the valley too much to want to return quickly. Once they returned, these idyllic nights next to her Kildar would end, at least until the wedding. Though, perhaps - it wasn't uncommon for a prospective bridegroom to 'come through the window' and spend nights with his betrothed. After all, the handfasting ceremony carried the force of law among the Keldara; the couple were as good as married. Perhaps, as the Kildaran, she would be able to reverse the tradition and come through Mike's window? It bore some thinking on...

"A few days, and they will need us, but there's plenty of time. We'll head home tomorrow, after the concert."

"Good." She snuggled closer to him. "I am ready to go back to the valley, but don't want to leave your bed just yet." She made sure that her ass pressed up against his middle. Down, boy! he thought.

"It won't be for much longer," he said, stroking her hair. "I don't know that I could keep your honor intact if we kept this up, anyway."

He felt her smile. "Nor I yours. Stasia asks me, every morning, if I have taken you yet."

"She does?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Every morning?"

"Mm-hmm."

"And what do you tell her!"

She pinched him, hard. "The truth! That you cannot keep your hands off me and that I am a ruined, ruined woman!" Laughing, she added, "I don't think she believes me."

"Brat!" He whipped himself over her, pinned her, and began a manic tickle attack. She writhed and howled beneath, laughing and trying ineffectually to force him off. He relented quickly, though - her tickle response was extremely high, and he worried that she wouldn't breathe for laughing. Still atop her, he said, "Give up?"

"Never!" And with surprising skill, she seemed to levitate from the bed, now grasping his arms, flip him in midair, and land, straddling him.

"Damn! How'd you manage that?"

"Didn't the Chief tell you I was working with him?"

"I don't think you learned that from Adams," he said. "Certainly not the landing." She glanced down as if suddenly aware all that was between them were their thin nightclothes.

"No, that was my own." Her voice turned seductive, moving her hands along his arms. "There is something else, something I would like to try."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she said, leaning down to kiss him. "There is. Don't move." She kissed his neck, and his chest, her long hair trailing, her hips moving rhythmically into him. It had been days since his session with Stasia, and Mike was instantly aroused.

"Kat, what are you -"

She kissed him again. "Shh. I want to do this." Kissing, again, her hand crept under his waistband and brushed his member. He was hard under her hand, and slowly, inexpertly, but with increasing confidence she began to stroke him. Her mouth continued its journey down his chest, hair tickling him.

She used her other hand to tug his boxers down to mid-thigh, bunching against her legs, straddling one leg and grinding against him. She didn't hesitate a moment, Mike noted in a remote corner of his mind as she took him into her mouth. Most of his thoughts were occupied by the beautiful woman giving him her first-ever blow job and trying to remember how to hold back.

Baseball statistics, he thought, her tongue active along his dick. WHIP is walks plus hits divided by innings pitched, was the desperate thought, her hand gently cupping his balls. It was no use resisting; she had been part of his fantasies, admitted or not, for too long. At least he could give her a choice. "I'm going to come," he managed to gasp, trying to pull her off him. She pushed his hand away, instead pulling him deeper into her mouth. He felt it before he erupted, pumping down into her throat. Amazingly, she swallowed it all, and when he finally relaxed back, spent, she came up for air smiling.

"Tinata told me you liked this," she whispered.

"God, honey, that was fantastic!" He hugged her, then let her settle against his shoulder. "Do you want a drink? There's got to be something in here..."

"No, Michael. I think, yes, I think I like the taste. Now. You will sleep."

And he did.
CHAPTER 29

Low Earth Orbit; Lake Kek-Usn; The Caravanserai; Groznyy

April 11

Chechnik hadn't lied, precisely, about Russian satellites.

Most of their high-resolution optical reconnaissance satellites, like the Yantar and Kobolt series, were placed in orbits that allowed them to focus their cameras on the United States. Overflying Russia were several Liana COMINT (Communications Intelligence) and Tselina ELINT (Electronic Intelligence) craft, designed to eavesdrop on cellular phones, radio transmissions, and other forms of electronic 'noise'. Only a single old Tsirkon, with its low-resolution, visible-spectrum-only camera, was positioned to observe the area around Lake Kek-Usn. And, unfortunately, it couldn't 'see' anything much smaller than three meters across, nor could it penetrate the tree cover.

That was the beauty, and the downfall, of the old Soviet-era satellites. While they were robust, durable, and long-lived, they were also limited in function and difficult (if not impossible) to upgrade. And while they were still functioning - however marginally - they wouldn't be replaced.

Upgrade? A newer satellite would have the best possible hardware, while being able to take advantage of software updates as they came available. These old satellites - hell, some of them had tape drives! Uplink? Forget it.

American satellites weren't any better. While they did provide continuous coverage of the former Soviet Union, the Caucasus region had been a low priority for many months. Even with urging from agency directors, it took some time for department heads to execute new orders. Besides, there was plenty of COMINT coverage, and didn't everybody use cell phones now?

Murphy smiled.

The three Predator drones were on the way. One had been forced to turn back when a processor reported an electrical fault. The fact that it was a relatively minor system, which had a functional backup and a built-in bypass routine was irrelevant. Standing orders were to RTB, so, back it went.

Murphy smiled wider.

The other two continued onward through the icy winds. Unfortunately, the winds deposited a thin coat of ice over the optics of one bird, orbiting the eastern shore of the lake, blurring its vision for this mission. No permanent damage, noted its controller, and made a note in the log to have it de-iced on return. Of course, if they had been on their game, they might have realized that they were taking drones from a desert environment and flying to a cold, mountainous region and installed the necessary hardware. Little things, like a heater.

Wider still.

The final Predator, on station and fully functional, orbited the western shore, some three kilometers away.

Can't win 'em all.

So, two hours before dawn, when Gereshk headed north through the woods, with a dozen men and a five-megaton thermonuclear weapon, nobody was in position to note it.

Nor did they note, an hour later, when Boulos Rahal and another six mujahideen headed south, with their much-smaller bomb, to Groznyy and Kassab's impatient force.

=============================

"Miserable Americans."

Grez looked over. "What's the problem, Anisa?"

"Look at this map!" She transferred the map she was examining from her station to the main screen.

It was more of a patchwork than a map. Gaping holes in coverage were immediately apparent, giving the image the appearance of a jigsaw put together by a three-year-old.

"I could do better with Google Earth!" she snapped.

"Probably, but -"

"They ask for our help, promise support, and what do we get? Nothing!"

"Anisa -"

"And don't get me started with the Russians! Their crap satellites might be old, but at least they have some in orbit!"

"Anisa!"

"Sorry."

"I understand. Just do the best you can."

Anisa returned to her work, muttering. She didn't notice Grez leave the Cave.

=============================

"Patrick, we cannot do our jobs if we don't have the data!"

"Yes, dear."

"If they'd listened to us in the first place, we'd have the gamma scans!"

"Yes, dear."

"It would be a case of 'follow the bouncing ball' - one JDAM and the problem would be solved! We wouldn't have to put any of our men at risk cleaning up someone else's problem!"

"Maybe if they painted it pink..." said Vanner, quietly.

"What?"

"Nothing, dear."

"We need the data, Patrick. At this point, I can only see two solutions: call back the Mice, let them hack their way into whatever they can and steal it; or call the Kildar, get him to shake the trees."

A horrified look from Vanner, and, "Not the Kildar. He'd probably shoot someone. Several someones. And probably whoever called him and ruined his vacation, too."

"Then the Mice."

"That won't work. They're up to their armpits in snakes right now."

"Then what do we do?"

"One other option - see what Pierson can scare up."

"Do you think that will do any good?"

"Can't hurt. And a damn sight better option than calling the Kildar."

"I have to agree."

"Okay, I'll call Bob. In the meantime, see if you can get the girls thinking about the problem from a different angle? Maybe that way they won't get so frustrated?"

"I'll try."

=============================

"It's cold."

"Weather is a situation you must learn to accept. Missions will not wait for your comfort."

"I understand, but can't we figure out a way to be just a little warmer?" She raised an eyebrow, almost suggestively. "I know one way..." She didn't expect him to respond and was not disappointed.

Katya and J were laying in the snow, across the road from where Gereshk had disappeared two days before. The signal from the tracer, now that they were back within range, was weak but stationary, about three hundred yards into the woods. They were both dressed in thermal protective garments, camouflaged for the snow cover, and should have been quite comfortable.

Except for her feet. Next time, she was stealing a pair of the militia's heated socks. Walking a bit would help, but no. They had to simply lay in wait, observing. Fucking boring. And goddam fucking cold!

J explained. "We are virtually invisible to the casual observer as we are now. If we disturb the snow any further, we risk creating an unnatural shape, one which a sentry's eye would be prone to pick out. Or, worse still, if we should be spotted while creating our little shelter, our mission would certainly be a failure. With nuclear stakes, do you wish to risk that?"

"No, teacher." The admission was grudging, at best. "Maybe next time we should build a fucking hide." His gaze was like ice. "Sorry."

"Then concentrate on the track into the woods."

=============================

"Kassab."

"Greetings, brother! It is Boulos!"

"Boulos, my friend, how good to hear from you! It's been a long, long time."

"Too long, indeed. Good news, though: I am on my way to visit, if that is convenient?"

"Delightful! All is prepared!"

"Allah smiles upon me, I shall be there tonight! And I shall bring a great gift to you!"

"Inshallah, Boulos!"

"Inshallah."

=============================

Stella was monitoring the ECHELON take. "Kassab's talking on the phone again, someone named Boulos." She listened to the raw feed, then called up a transcript. "Grez? I think they might be moving." ECHELON could be hit or miss, just by its nature. Massively capable, it could intercept just about any signal, any location, any time. That was its downfall, too; without an adequate filter, it returned far too many false positives.

The Mice were best at programming. That was a given. But the rest of the Intel section weren't slouches, either. This call was returning a confidence rating of 85%. Good as gold.

Greznya was by her side in seconds. "Who is moving?"

"I mean, I think that a bomb is on the move. To Groznyy."

"Did Katya or J call it in?"

Stella shook her head. "No, and that is why I'm not sure. It sounds like a badly-disguised code, but here, you listen." Grez put on headphones, listened to the brief conversation.

"You're right, it does sound like movement. Who is Boulos?"

"Probably Boulos Rahal, another of Inarov's regular supporters."

"So, he would make sense to transport a weapon?"

"Very much so. Inarov trusts him as much as he trusts anyone."

"Send an alert to Pavel's team, let them know to expect company soon."

"Should they take out Kassab?" Stella's fingers hovered over the keyboard, ready to tap out the few strokes necessary to put the team into action.

"Not our decision."

=============================

"It's our decision."

"Scrag 'em now and we'll have a little surprise waiting for Mr. Rahal when he arrives." The Chief was unequivocal.

"What if there's another contact attempt? What then?"

"Pat, you worry too much. These ragheads don't know diddlyshit for security. I'll bet they don't even warn 'em before they show up tonight and have to knock on the door."

"No bet."

"It's still too great a risk," added Nielson. "If Pat's right about another call, we can't chance it. Even if he's wrong, we have enough firepower there to take out twice the force."

Adams considered this. "If they can plant some demo, it'll make the take-down easier."

"Do they have a sniper?"

"Yeah, Braon. He's not in Lasko's league, but who is? That's why he's off now. You thinking about rooftop?"

"Exactly."

"So. They place demo where they can, cover the rear with Braon, and take them from the front. Best time would be when the other group arrives, situational awareness should be at its lowest."

"You're the SEAL, Chief. Whatever you think will work best."

"They are soooo fucked."

Nielson rolled his eyes. "SEALs."

=============================

Both the half-blind Predator and myopic Tsirkon saw the battalion-sized force move south out of the woods. They weren't moving quickly, since they were on foot and leading a single mule-drawn wagon. This was just what they were looking for, and the electronic intelligences screamed.

Murphy stopped smiling.

=============================

"Movement south of Kek-Usn," announced Kelson.

The American driver, sitting at her video terminal, commanded the Predator's camera to zoom in. "Sorry, not much joy here. I can see a bunch of people, but - whoa!"

The screen had suddenly erupted in static.

"We've lost telemetry from the bird!" she snapped. "All systems are off-line!" She typed in a series of commands that should have reset the operations computer aboard the Predator and waited ten seconds. "Nothing. I don't think there's anything there anymore."

"Confirmed. No joy on return signal. Bird is dead," agreed the support tech, sitting in the booth next to hers.

"Shot down?" asked the monitoring officer.

"Seems like. Shit! I didn't get a flare or any other warning. They shouldn't have anything that advanced!"

"Nothing you could have done. The question is, do we leave the other on station, or do we send it after your bogey?"

=============================

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"I thought I heard something, off to the south."

J strained his ears, but whatever it had been was gone, now.

"What did it sound like?"

"A sharp cracking sound."

"A hunter, perhaps. Pay attention to your sector."

=============================

"General, with all due respect, one Predator or two doesn't mean squat if we lose track of a nuke."

"How do you know they have a nuke, Pierson?"

"Would you use a ground-to-air on a Predator if you weren't protecting something big? The driver didn't get any warning, either. That means her bird was taken out by something using either purely passive sensors or optics; either way, it's dammed hi-tech and seriously expensive." He plowed on. "Let's assume you're right, General, and we just have a bunch of people off for a walk in the woods in winter. I think I'd be just a little curious about it, don't you?"

"You have a point," admitted the Air Force officer. "Very well, I'll order the other Predator to follow. I'm keeping this one above missile range though!"

"That's not gonna do any good, unless it's above 20,000 feet. That's the range of the Igla's we think these bastards have, and that's too high for an off-the-shelf Predator to do much good. They're only good up to 25,000, and their cameras can't see worth a damn from that high."

"I know that, Pierson! What else can I do?"

"Not much, sir. My suggestion is you order it in at about ten thousand. That should be high enough to degrade the Igla's' accuracy enough, and maybe give your drivers enough time to pick up a trace and evade. If not, well, they can't knock out the satellites."

=============================

"42nd Recon, Anderson."

"Richie? Bob Pierson. How soon can you get that Two Victor in place?"

"One is standing by for orders on Diego Garcia, and a second is en route."

"Get it up. We need eyes, and we need 'em now."

"You got it."

=============================

"FUCK!"

Nielson's voice, echoing through the caravanserai, brought Vanner and Adams at a run.

"What happened?" asked Adams, first to arrive.

"There's a god dammed battalion-sized force of Chechens marching south from Kek-Usn, armed with SAMs, and we have NO fucking idea where they are!"

"How did they get by?"

"They blasted the Predator orbiting above them to splinters as they started movement, then kept firing SAMs at the second drone until the chickenshit Air Force puke in charge pulled it out of the area!"

"When?"

"Two hours ago. Pierson just called, he's gotten a U-2V in the air and heading that way, but it's gonna be at least another hour before it's on station. Motherfucker!" Nielson dropped into his chair. "We've lost them."

"Dave, Katya and J are in the area -"

"And how the fuck did they manage to miss this? I thought he was the master spy?"

"I don't know, but I'll ask. Let's get them moving, see if they can track them down. They can't have gone far, not on foot."

"You do that. Chief, get the teams moving faster. As soon as you can get them rolling, I want them on the road."

"What about Mike?"

"How long do you need?"

"Three hours for the Keldara. Not sure about Dragon and Valkyrie, but they can catch up. They need serious ECM packages, if we're getting this kind of fire at drones."

"I'll call him once you hit the road. He'll fly into Tbilisi, I'll have Dragon pick him up and ferry him to wherever you are at the time."

"That'll work. And the girls?"

"Valkyrie can shuttle them back here." He turned to yell for Daria, but she was already there, closing her notebook. With a half-nod, she headed out, giving orders.

"Damn, I'm gonna miss that girl."

=============================

"They got past us," snapped J, rising from the snow and dashing down the road, all caution thrown to the wind as he traded stealth for speed. This part of the mission was blown, and only serious effort would begin to repair the damage.

"What? How?" panted Katya, running hard through the snow to catch up.

"There must be another exit, one we didn't know about. Vanner said that there's a force headed south, with at least a two-hour head start." He shook his head. "I should have realized."

"What?"

"Remember, you heard a noise?"

"Yes, I do."

"That was one of the Predators being blown up, not a hunter." He smiled grimly. "See? You begin to exceed your teacher's abilities." They had reached their car, far off the road in a copse. "I'll drive, you look for anything unusual. It won't be easy to hide several hundred men."
CHAPTER 30

St. Louis

April 11

Despite the late night, Mike woke with the dawn after a restless night. A nagging feeling dogged him, barely remembered dreams of cold and darkness. He extricated himself from the sheets, being especially careful not to wake Katrina, and padded out to the living room. Hughes was racked out on the couch but sprang up almost instantly.

"Sorry. Couldn't sleep any longer. Need to get some exercise. Want to join me?"

Hughes stretched. "No problem. Yeah, if I don't have to leave the hotel."

"I'm sure that can be arranged. Why don't you go find where their fitness center, or whatever they call it, is?" Hughes took the implied dismissal quietly as Mike pulled out his mobile and called Hardesty.

"Yes?" came the sleepy voice.

"John? Jenkins."

"Sir?" This response was much more alert.

"Plans have changed."

"How soon do you need the plane? She's fueled, but I'd prefer the other crew get a little more rest before -"

"Whoa! Not that quick!"

"I'm used to your, ah, shall we say precipitous departures?"

"Point. No, we won't be leaving until late tonight, but we'll be flying back home. Does the bird have the legs for a single hop from here?"

The reply was hesitant. "I don't believe so. I'll check on that and file a flight plan."

"Okay, I'll call back later." He hung up without another word. "Morning, Stasia. Sleep well?"

"I slept alone. Again." Then she smiled. "I suppose I shall have to adjust. What are you doing?"

"Just making plans for tonight. Thought Hardesty might appreciate a little advance notice for once."

"We are leaving St. Louis so soon?"

Oops. "Back to the Valley. Mission's going hot."

"Ah. Should we return sooner?"

"No, they can handle the mobilization on their own. Plus, I'm not gonna miss Cruxshadows if I'm in town!"

"When you talk to Captain Hardesty again, please ask him to plan a stop in Washington."

"DC? Why?"

"Have you forgotten Katrina's dress?"

"Um -" Danger! Danger! Stall! Don't answer that!

"And would it be polite to strand Jack - I mean, Major Hughes here?"

"No, but -"

"Michael!" She sounded vexed. "I see you would have!" He was saved by the suite's phone ringing.

"Jenkins."

"They've got a gym, and it's open. Seventh floor."

"Be right down." Hanging up, he stood. "Hughes. Off to do a workout. Kat's still asleep; I'll wake her when I get back." With that, minefields avoided for now, he retreated.

=============================

A sweat-filled hour later they returned.

"I talked with Noemi. Most of Katrina's clothes are finished, and she can have them at the airport tonight. But the dress is taking longer."

"Can she ship it?"

"I asked that. She can but is unwilling. She will bring it personally to the Valley when it is complete."

"I'm sure that'll cost."

"She said she would do it at no charge, on one condition: that she be allowed to use photographs of Katrina in the dress for her business."

"Deal." He nodded at his bedroom door. "Katrina awake yet?"

"I have not heard her," she answered.

"Right. We'll be out in a while." And he walked to the door, entered, and closed it quietly. Katrina was still asleep, nightclothes disarrayed. He said, once, "Kat?"

She stirred slightly.

"Kat?" he repeated, a little louder.

She stirred again, but that was all.

He opened his palm and slapped her butt, eliciting a startled squeak as she popped upright.

"Hey!"

"Good morning!" he said cheerfully. "Awake now?"

"Michael!" she said severely.

"What? You weren't waking up, and we need to get going."

"So early?"

"Busy day. Now, are you going to get out of bed, or do I have to encourage you again?"

=============================

"Hardesty."

"Jenkins. We have to stop in DC."

"Bugger. Right, I'll refile the flight plan."

"Murphy strikes again."

"Indeed. Just for information though, she does have the range, just, to make Tbilisi from here."

"Good to know, I guess."

=============================

Eventually they were all ready. "The Arch should be open soon," said Mike. "We can do that first, go to the Zoo, or just walk around the city if that strikes your fancy." He looked out the window, seeing the wind stand the flags straight out. "I'd suggest the Arch, since it's sunny out now. Don't want to go up and get clouded in."

"The Arch, then," said Katrina.

"Sounds like a plan," added Hughes.

"How high is it?" asked Stasia.

"I'm not sure of the exact number, but I know it's over six hundred feet. High enough to see quite a ways. Come on, let's head out."

The sun warmed them as they walked the few blocks to the site of the Arch. They entered the underground, North entrance and boarded the egg-shaped tram car to the top. The door closed.

"Are you sure this is safe?" asked Stasia, looking nervously around at the small space.

"Of course," started Mike, but was interrupted by a narration: "Welcome to the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in St. Louis..."

Four minutes later, the tram stopped, and the small door slid open. They climbed a series of stairs, past other similar doors, that quickly flattened out. Soon they were in the observation deck, a long, gently curved room. The walls were angled out from the floor, mirroring the triangular facets of the arch. Deep, small windows were set along both sides, the walls carpeted, and a small ledge ran along the floor to provide extra lift. A few other tourists wandered from window to window.

Stasia clung to Mike. "I do not like this," she said.

"Here," he responded, guiding her to the wall. "Lean against this. Feel how solid that is?" She nodded. "You'll be okay here," he added. "Jack? Stay nearby."

Katrina was leaning over to a west-facing window, overlooking the city. "What's that?" she asked, pointing.

"Don't know, babe," he replied. "I'm not that familiar with St. Louis." A park attendant, walking by, added, "What building do you mean?"

"Right down there, many pillars out front, with the green dome on top."

"Oh, that's the Old Courthouse. The majestic Old Courthouse has remained over the past 150 years as one of St. Louis' most prominent architectural landmarks. The Old Courthouse was the site of the first two trials of the pivotal Dred Scott case in 1847 and 1850. It was also where Virginia Minor's case for a woman's right to vote came to trial in the 1870s."

"Sounds like you've said that once or twice," said Mike.

The ranger smiled. "Maybe. It's still worth a look, if you have the time. Some really neat exhibits down there, especially about the Underground Railroad."

"Oh, we were on one of those in Washington! Boston, too!"

Mike contained his mirth, suspecting that laughing at Kat in public would be a mistake. "Not a subway, Katrina. The Underground Railroad was a system which helped free slaves before the Civil War."

"It wasn't even usually a railroad," added the ranger with a straight face. "Just a series of safe houses."

Katrina flushed. "Oh!" she exclaimed, then returned to the window. "That's a baseball stadium?" she said, pointing.

"Busch Stadium, right?" said Mike.

"Home of the Cardinals, sure is!"

"I'd like to see another game; can we go, Mike?" He looked at the ranger. "Don't suppose you know the schedule?"

He shook his head sorrowfully. "Sorry, miss, the Redbirds are out of town this week. They'll be home again next Tuesday if you'll be in town?"

"Nope, maybe another visit."

"No better place to see a game!" Looking around, he continued, "Nice talking to you folks, but I have to keep moving."

"Thanks for your time," agreed Mike. "Sorry, Kat." He leaned down, head next to hers, and peered out the window. "See that white dome? That's the football stadium. I don't know what it's called, though. The Rams play there." Falling silent, he took in the city with her for a moment, then moved to the other side.

"I know what we're doing next!" he exclaimed.

"What?" she asked, coming across the aisle.

"Down there." He pointed to a riverboat moored across the river. "On the other side of the Mississippi. Name says it's the Casino Queen, so I'm thinking it's a riverboat casino."

"I don't want to go there," insisted Kat. "I thought we were going to the Zoo?"

"Well -" Damn. He had all sorts of Bond lines all prepared. Well, he could be stubborn too...

=============================

They were back to the suite just before two. "Kat?" called Mike, as he opened the door. "Major?" No reply.

"Looks like we're here firs - oof!" Even an ex-SEAL could be surprised occasionally, and Stasia's leap had caught him unprepared. He staggered for a moment, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms around his shoulders, before recovering to close his arms under her shapely rear. "What brought this on?"

"I want to thank you." she replied, kissing his neck.

"For what?"

"For taking me with you today, to the casino, for lunch, for spending time with me - for everything!" She let her voice turn meek. "I've been quite naughty, these past days. I'm sure you'd be terribly angry if you knew what I've been thinking about every night."

Getting into the play, carrying her toward his bedroom, he said, "You'd better tell me. And quickly before I really lose my temper!"

He kicked the door shut behind them.

=============================

Four o'clock. Stasia was lying across his chest, dozing. Mike heard the outer door open, so he was watching when Katrina opened the bedroom door. Stepping into the darkness, she paused briefly, eyes adjusting to the lack of light, before continuing in.

"You didn't even flinch," he said admiringly.

She leaned over and kissed him. "I knew that I couldn't yet provide you all you need. Stasia's my friend, too, and she needs you." Looking down at the sleeping harem manager, a wicked gleam in her eye, she inquired, "May I?"

Uncertain of her intent, Mike nodded his agreement anyway.

SMACK!

The palm of Kat's hand left a bright red mark on Stasia's ass. Eyes flying open in surprise, Stasia quickly relaxed and, with a lazy smile, said, "You have a good touch for someone so young. Again."

"None of that right now, ladies!" interrupted Mike. "Do that when we have a little more time. Now, though, we have to get ready for dinner and a show - so up!"
CHAPTER 31

Near Lake Kek-Usn; The Caravanserai; Groznyy; St. Louis

April 11

"Where did they go?"

"I - don't - know - who - you - mean!" gasped out the young soldier. Cottontail had him firmly - no, excruciatingly tightly - around the throat with her thighs and was holding him against a wall. The pressure forced him into a subservient position before the questions even started.

Very demoralizing.

They had followed the track from Kek-Usn here, a remote Russian Army Vehicle Maintenance Depot. Given the chronic corruption and lack of funding, it was more of a scrap yard. Four rows of trucks, personnel carriers, jeeps, and other assorted machinery lay before them, with a number of notable gaps in the lines. While J examined the holes, hoping to determine the types of trucks taken, Cottontail had made for the guard shack, where she found the unfortunate private lying unconscious in the snow. She had awakened him with all her wonted gentleness and was proceeding to interrogate him.

She squeezed harder.

"Where are the trucks? Who took them? When did they take them?" A hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"He might be able to answer if you let him breathe," suggested J.

She dropped him, disgustedly. "Filthy pig-fucker. Useless, just like all the other soldier-boys."

J knelt next to the panting boy. "What's your name?" he inquired, gently.

"Tomas," he managed.

"Tomas, we're trying to help you. My friend just got a little carried away, didn't you, Katya?"

"Yes."

"And I'm sure she's sorry. Aren't you?"

"Yes. Sorry." She still sounded more pissed than apologetic, but since he was still breathing Tomas didn't press the issue.

"Now. What happened?"

Ah, yes, old school. Good cop, bad cop. And the witness? Scared shitless.

==============================

"Where are we?"

"Another thirty minutes and we're outta here," answered Adams. He, Nielson, Vanner, Grez, and Captain Guerrin were gathered in the conference room, reviewing the rapid execution of the mobilization plan. "Dragon and Valkyrie have received clearance for Russian overflight, but they won't authorize rearm. Refuel, yes."

Nielson nodded. "We have the transport to carry her bullets? Hump 'em. JP?"

Guerrin answered, "My men are up to speed and synched into your commo, have current maps with pre-set positions noted, and have their gear loaded. One platoon is already in the hills; the other two are on ten minutes' notice."

"How's the liaison with the mortars?" asked Adams archly.

"Corporal Sivula has done his job in a highly professional manner," said Guerrin stiffly, then smiled. "He and Jessia have them seamlessly integrated."

"What a shock - not!"

"And you're clear on your mission?" interrupted Nielson.

"Patrol out to about ten klicks from the Valley proper. Maintain sentry posts at established locations. Defend the Valley against any incursions."

"Status of enemy forces?" Nielson turned to Vanner.

"Groznyy site under observation. Demo emplaced. Standing order to engage when the nuke arrives."

"Kek-Usn?"

"U-2V orbiting. We're receiving a continuous feed, visual and infrared. Nothing's getting out of there without us knowing."

"And the mobile force?"

Grez answered, grimacing. "Unknown. Cottontail reported that they followed them to Kalininskiy, a small town a few klicks south of the lake. No attempt was made to hide the movement. The trail ended at a vehicle depot outside town. J questioned the guard, who didn't know much. He said he was in the guardhouse, answered a knock on the door, and next thing he knew Cottontail had him up against a wall by the throat and was barking questions at him. He did say that he was surprised that any trucks were missing."

"Why?"

"This depot is in a very remote area. It's used mostly for obsolete machines the Russians don't think have much chance of repair, even allowing for the usual incompetence and parts issues."

"Did he identify what was taken?"

"He couldn't point out anything specifically. They don't actually patrol the lot, just control access from the main road, so he wasn't familiar with the inventory. And the printed inventory list seems totally worthless - J read parts to me which suggest they made off with four GAZ M-23 escort vehicles, twelve Tatra T-111 trucks, six PAZ-672G all-terrain busses - there were more, but the list seemed silly for a military depot."

Vanner was looking thoughtfully at her. "What else was taken? According to inventory."

She consulted her notes. "Two ZIL-E 167s, no description."

"Big six by six troop movers designed for heavy terrain. Anything else?"

"Seven GAZ-69."

"That's their version of a jeep. Okay, this actually makes sense."

"What? All of these are at least forty years old!"

"No, it's perfect. Look. First, this facility is close enough to their base to be easily accessed, right?"

"Yes..."

"Second, it's lightly guarded and infrequently visited."

"They could do any necessary work undisturbed," added Grez, getting into the rhythm.

"Right. Third, look at what they took. The GAZ M-23 was a high-speed escort vehicle built for the KGB in the sixties; the Tatra T-111 is legendary for its reliability and off-road capability; the PAZ-672G was a twenty-six passenger bus built with four-wheel-drive for use in Siberia; and the ZIL-E was built to carry troops through any terrain, under any conditions."

"They can move on roads or off-road, whichever is easier."

"Right again. They can use the M-23s to scout ahead, even split into several groups, an escort with each."

"And since they're all army vehicles, nobody will question them, either."

"Exactly. Perfect camouflage."

"That's great," interrupted Nielson, "How do we track them? We don't know where they're going!"

"That is a problem," admitted Vanner.

"The only solution I see is to track all groups of trucks in the area," suggested Grez.

"Very manpower-intensive," cautioned Vanner.

"And how do we know which bunch of trucks is which? Have the Russians stop them and knock on the window? 'Excuse me, did you steal these -?' BANG!" mocked Adams.

"If we coordinate with the Russian military, we should be able to eliminate most of the legitimate movements."

"If they can find their ass with both hands and a GPS!" snorted Adams.

"It's the best shot we have!" countered Vanner.

"We don't even know if these fuckers have a nuke! Maybe they're just transferring to another base!"

"Calm down, you two!" snapped Nielson. "It's a major movement either way. It needs attention. If it turns out they're simply en route to a new location, then the Russians can deal with them."

"Here's a scary thought: what if they break up into multiple groups because they have multiple nukes?"

"Thank you so very fucking much!" snarled Adams.

Nielson ignored him. "Pat, get on the horn to Chechnik. Fill him in, get him working his end."

"Gotcha."

"Grez, back down in the hole. You usually run three shifts?"

"Yes."

"Run them double shifts, overlapping. Primary group on for eight hours, second group comes on with primary for eight, primary goes off for eight when the third group comes on. You'll need the extra eyes and ears."

"Understood."

"Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"Expedite."

"What about Mike?"

"I'll make that call."

==============================

"Activity."

The Keldara's whisper over the radio net brought the entire team to full attention. Silently, with the skill pounded into them through seemingly endless drills, safeties were released, rounds chambered, guns raised. The plastic explosives, arranged around windows and doors that would otherwise potentially deflect a bullet from its target, were primed and armed.

Braon just waited. As the team sniper, that was his role.

An old Toyota sedan, battered and dented, rolled down the street towards the house, followed by a nondescript heavy truck, bed covered over with rotting canvas. The sedan flashed its brights once, twice, three times, then rolled to a stop.

The front door opened.

"Wait until they all exit the building," whispered Pavel. "Try NOT to kill Kassab."

Chechens, bundled tightly against the cold, spilled out of the doorway. The sedan's doors opened in response, and three men climbed out.

"Seven, eight. That's all of them. Kassab's in the lead."

"Take them!"

The night erupted. The demo charges were triggered, spraying the trailing fighters with glass and brick, while deadly-accurate fire methodically mowed them down from the front. Kassab alone escaped immediate death, but rounds shattered his left leg and right shoulder simultaneously.

The men in the car fared as poorly; all three were dead before properly registering they were being attacked. The driver of the truck reacted a little more quickly, slamming into gear and mashing the accelerator to the floor. Unfortunately, he slammed the truck into fourth instead of reverse. The truck lurched forward, crunched into the trunk of the sedan, and stalled. The driver didn't have time to realize his mistake before a round exploded his head like an overripe melon. The tires exploded under the impact of dozens of rounds.

"Don't fire into the back of the truck!" called Pavel over the radio. "We can't risk damaging the bomb!" He changed frequencies. "Braon, shift position. I need you able to see into the truck."

"Understood."

Intermittent, ineffectual fire sprayed erratically from the bed of the truck. It was uncoordinated, panicked, but it forced the Keldara to stay undercover.

"Braon! Hurry!"

"In position. Sighting." A series of sharp cracks echoed through the night. "Targets serviced."

Pavel waved Ivor and Artur forward. Moments later, they reported, "Package secure."

"Check for survivors and get a medic out for Kassab."

Kassab had lost a fair amount of blood and was barely conscious. Gerasim, the medic, ran a pint of O Neg and another of saline to bring the volume up while he worked on staunching the bleeding.

"Can he hear me?" asked Pavel.

"He should, but he's in and out. He might not track very well."

"Good enough. Kassab!"

The Chechen's eyelids fluttered. "Who are you?"

"I'm the man asking you questions. If you want to live, I'd suggest you answer them. When do you report in next?"

"Piss on you."

"If that's how you want it," shrugged Pavel. He grabbed the ruined shoulder and squeezed. Kassab groaned.

"Again, Kassab. When do you report in?"

"I would rather die."

"And I would prefer to honor your wish, but the Kildar would be disappointed in me. So, I will ask once more. If you do not tell me, why, we'll just have to keep you alive. Awake. In pain. All the way back to the Valley. Then, I'll let Mother Lenka ask you questions. I'm sure our doctor can repair any truly critical damage, keep you functional for a long, long time." He leaned in closer. "Do you know the stories they tell of our women, Kassab? How they tear the still-beating hearts from the bodies of their victims? Drink their blood?" His voice dropped to a ghastly whisper. "They're all true." At a normal tone, he continued, "Last time. When do you report in?"

Kassab choked out, "I am to report when Boulos arrives, and again when we're ready to place the device."

"Timetable? Exact, please."

Kassab shook his head. "No exact timetable. We didn't know how quickly Boulos would arrive, or how long it will take to move the bomb."

Gerasim spoke. "Have to hurry up. There must be internal bleeding, his BP is dropping like a stone."

"When is the latest you can report? When will they start to worry?"

Kassab didn't answer. He seemed to have passed out. Pavel hit the bloody leg, and Kassab awoke with a gasp of pain. "How long until you must report?"

"Sundown, tomorrow." His face grayed and he slumped down unconscious. Gerasim pushed Pavel away.

"That's it. He's out. If you want any more information from him, I need to treat him now."

"Keep him alive. We need what he knows." Artur trotted up. "Report."

"Weapon is secure, but that truck isn't going anywhere. Three survivors from the house force; none from the incoming group."

"Condition of survivors?"

"Two are in a bad way, don't think they'll make it much longer. The third is better off, says his name is Salah."

"Very good. Casualties?"

"Iosif tripped over a brick and sprained his ankle. We've got it taped up. He's fully functional, but he'll feel it tomorrow," he finished with a smile.

Pavel grinned back. "Good. We've got to get out of here, quickly. Take half the men, gather our gear, police the area, and prepare to roll. Ivor!" he called. "Rig the townhouse! I want that place rubble!" Turning again, he said, "Semyon, take two men and toss the house. Look for cell phones, computers, anything like that. You have five minutes!"

==============================

"Wilson."

"Tammy, can you make it to Groznyy in one hop?"

"No problem, Colonel."

"What about back?"

"As long as I'm not too heavily loaded."

"Get in the air. Tac frequency three. Dust-off of wounded prisoners and a package. Pavel will give you the exact rendezvous point."

"Hot LZ?"

"No."

"What's the package?"

"A nuke."

"Crap," she muttered. "Roger. On our way." Tammy dropped the phone, grabbed her flight suit and started slipping into it. "Naida!"

"Ma'am?"

"Suit up! We're hot! Chief!"

D'Allaird, anticipating her, replied, "Gassed and ready to roll!"

"Outstanding!" Hopping on one foot, she pulled on her other boot. "Lift off in two minutes!"

Naida rushed into the room, zipping her suit. "Mission, ma'am?"

"Pickup in Groznyy, prisoners and a nuke."

Naida gulped. "A nuke?"

"That's what the man said. Better be a smooth flight then, huh?" A devil-may-care grin crossed her face. "Knew this job was gonna be the shit!"

==============================

"Jenkins!" Mike's voice on the phone could barely be heard over the pounding music. Nielson could clearly hear a singer: "With noble acts, the bravest souls / Endure the heart's remains..."

Stasia and Katrina were wearing the closest they could come to goth outfits, though Stasia's leather bustier was considerably closer. They were dancing to the music, Jack watching them while scanning the crowd and enduring. Though, listening to the lyrics, he thought he may have to reassess.

Kat was doing her best to keep up with Stasia, but there was no comparison. Stasia was in her element. Despite the crowd. Despite the oddities of dress. Through Mike, she knew the music. Through the sheik, she knew how to dance. It allowed her to move freely, expressively, and she was taking full advantage of this opportunity.

Rogue, the lead singer, had noticed her, and had asked the stage manager to invite her on-stage. But before he could find her, she would be gone. A dream that once was.

"It's going down!"

"What?" shouted Mike.

"The op! It's going down!" shouted back Nielson.

"The op?"

"Yes!"

"Fuck!" Nielson could hear, barely, heartfelt cursing. "Understood! We're moving now!" The phone cut off. He could only imagine the conversation happening on the other end. The girls weren't going to be happy. It sounded like one hell of a concert.

==============================

"Arise, my brothers!"

Inarov's still-handsome face glowed with the fervor of the fanatic on the web page. "The day of reckoning for the infidel overlords is at hand! Arise and join with me in establishing the Trans-Caucasian Emirate of Islam! Take up arms, knowing the Allah has provided you with guidance. Listen and obey my words as your Emir! I promise you justice! I promise you power! I promise you freedom!" His visage turning stern, he continued. "O godless leaders of Chechnya and Russia, I abjure thee! Remove your troops from our land, allow our men to live their lives as Allah has willed, and leave this land forever, or Allah shall bring down upon your capitals His holy fire and burn your poison out! Depart, and you shall taste Allah's mercy. Remain, and you shall taste Allah's wrath. You have two days to obey the word of Allah and his Emir." Now the face softened, smiling. "My brothers, have faith. Through the mercy of Allah, you shall be free to live as the Qur'an! Be strong, resist the temptations of the infidels, and you shall be among the chosen!" The picture froze for a moment, then resumed.

"Arise, my brothers!"

==============================

"Shit." Bob Pierson's oath was muttered, but no less heartfelt. He had made it home at a reasonable time, only to be called back to OSOL three short hours later. Now he watched the feed from the net a second time, reaching for the phone.

"Keldara House, Ilena Mahona speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Colonel Nielson, please."

"Certainly, Colonel Pierson. One moment."

"Hold on. How did you know...?"

"The Colonel has been expecting your call, sir." He could practically hear her dimpling. "You'll be on the secure line shortly." Seconds later, he heard, "Good evening, Colonel."

Without preface, Pierson replied, "Have you seen the web?"

"We've been a little busy, Colonel," Nielson answered irritably. "What about it?"

"Your friend Inarov just posted a video, calling for an uprising and promising the use of what he calls 'Allah's fire'. Sounds like he's getting ready to make things happen."

"More than getting ready. We just intercepted a group in Groznyy, and they were packing heavy."

"How heavy?"

"We don't know yet. It's en route back to the Valley, should be here in a few hours. We'll let you know then. What else does he say on the video?"

"It's on a loop, you can check it our yourself." He gave Nielson a web address. "We're trying to trace it, but not having much luck. It's getting plenty of hits. With any kind of luck, the server'll crash soon. Think you can help on that?"

"Vanner'll get on it as well. Anything else, Colonel?"

"No. If we hear anything else, I'll make sure it's passed on."

"Thank you." And without another word, the connection was broken.
CHAPTER 32

St. Louis; Airborne over the US; Dulles International; The Valley

April 11

Mike was pissed.

There were nukes in play, and they had lost - temporarily, he was assured - at least one, plus the huge fucking force that was escorting it - them.

His Keldara were heading into battle without him. Some had already engaged the enemy. While he knew, intellectually, that he couldn't always be in the van for every engagement, it still pained him more deeply than he had expected.

He was skipping out on the last quarter of a show he had really, really been anticipating.

And now, he couldn't even get a simple ride to the airport.

If things didn't change soon, someone was gonna die.

Hughes put away his mobile. "Got a vehicle. Coming from the Coast Guard, they -"

"Coast Guard?" said Kat, incredulous. "But we're not near a coast, are we?"

"Not hardly, but the Mississippi is the major river in the U.S., so the Coasties - whose job is to patrol and protect the coastline and waterways - maintain offices all up and down it. Anyway, the Upper Mississippi Region Sector office is sending a van to take us to the airport."

"Bet that was an interesting conversation," added Mike, grinning slightly.

"It sure was," replied Hughes. But Mike was already dialing, game face on. The girls knew better than to interrupt.

"Good evening, Captain Hardesty speaking."

"Jenkins. What's our status?"

"Pre-flight completed, plan filed for travel to Tbilisi, with a stop in DC. Fuel will be available in DC if we choose. The luggage is aboard and stowed."

"Great. I'll call again when we're fifteen minutes out." Without waiting for an answer, he disconnected and redialed. "Office of Special Opera -"

"Pierson?"

"Yes?" answered the interrupted voice warily.

"Kildar. On our way out of St. Louis shortly, going to stop in DC for a pickup. How badly do you need Hughes back?"

"He's detached to you for the duration of your visit, so I don't have him on any duty roster until after you leave. Why?"

"I want to take him with us."

"Why?" Curiosity warred with suspicion in Pierson's voice.

"He's been pretty useful, he seems to know his ass from his elbow, and he'll be able to give you that after-action report you keep bugging me for."

"Uh-huh."

"He'll also provide me with a real-time link back to OSOL and NSC, in case it's needed. Unless you'd prefer to come along?"

"Not really, I've seen the end results of your missions once or twice, remember?" He paused, then resumed. "No objection here. I suppose since we've borrowed your Blind Mice, you can borrow Hughes. What did he say?"

"I haven't asked him yet. He'll say yes or Stasia'll pout."

"Uh-huh. If he voluntarily agrees, then you can have him. We'd like him back in one piece, though."

"No promises, Bob. Thanks." Putting away the phone, he turned back to Hughes. "So, what do you think? Up for a trip to sunny Georgia and points north?"

"If you think I can be useful to you, sir, I'm in."

"Will you need anything from DC?"

"Passport, secure phone, a few other odds and ends. I keep a case at the office, I can have it brought to the airport."

"Settled, then. Now. Where the fuck is that van?" A passer-by whistled at Stasia. "I really, really feel the need to shoot someone. But I'm not sure I could live down using a pink gun."

"You could use mine," offered Jack, who was getting visibly annoyed at the pedestrians as well.

"Government-issue, too easily traced."

"Mine, Kildar?"

"Definitely not."

==============================

Forty minutes later they were aboard the 550. "I'm going to rack out," announced Mike as they began their taxi. "It's gonna be a long flight."

"I'll join you," said Katrina.

"Stasia? Jack?"

"I cannot sleep yet, Michael."

"And I'll keep the lady company. Since we're going to miss out on the Alamo, I'm going to see if I can find the movie on-line, play history teacher."

"No monkey business," he admonished mockingly. In the rear compartment, he kicked off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. Katrina joined him after removing her flats.

"Hold on there!" he said as they started to accelerate, gripping the mattress with one hand to keep from sliding off, cradling her against him with the other arm. "Not exactly a recommended position for takeoff!"

Her face was serene. "I knew you would catch me."

Mike just shook his head. "Ready to go home?"

"Yes, and no."

He laughed. "That's about as ambiguous as it gets!"

"Well - no, I am not ready to go, because it means my first travel is over. There is so much we saw! And I know that there is more we did not see, yes?"

"Oh yeah. We barely scratched the surface."

"What I saw, I liked."

"What was your favorite?"

She thought, briefly. "The baseball game."

"Oh?" He was surprised. Baseball was hardly what he expected her to choose.

"Yes. Not so much the game - that was so confusing! - but the people we met, Lewis and Marilyn, Eric and Meghan, Mike and the man with the silly name -"

"Big Papi? Ortiz?"

She laughed. "Yes! And the others, that we didn't meet. You were right, Michael. It was a place, a time, of hope and joy and happiness and expectation like I have never experienced before." She thought again, struggling to find the right words. "It will sound odd, but in those few hours, more than any other time, I felt that I knew Americans. And you know? They're not so strange, after all."

Chuckling, he said, "The Kildaran has spoken!"

"You're teasing me!"

"A little," he admitted. "I agree, though. Baseball is about as pure American as you can get."

"I am also not ready to go home because it means times like this will have to end, for a while."

"Just for a while," Mike said. "Less time than you might think."

"I do not wish to give them up at all!" she insisted, sitting up. Relenting, she sighed, "But I shall do as custom requires. Of course, going home is good, too. I do miss my family, especially my cousin."

"Which cousin?"

"Yulia. She's a year younger than me, also unmarried. She serves on a mortar team when she's not working with Mother Lenka in the brewery."

"Why isn't she married?"

"Her betrothed was killed in Pankisi," said Kat sadly. "They would have been married later that winter."

"Dammit, I'm sorry," began Mike, to be interrupted.

"No! She's not. Oh, she liked Conall well enough, and probably would have been happy with him. When he died, though, she was free to make another choice, and do you know what that is?"

"No," he had to admit.

"She wants to travel! She heard the explanations you and Vanner and MacKenzie came up with for the Keldara's origins, and she's decided she wants to find out the truth. She's saved her money from the brewery, and from the militia, and is planning to go to Scotland!"

"Sounds pretty serious. Has she thought this out? It's been centuries since the Keldara were in Scotland."

She shook him off fiercely. "That's not my point. If you had not come to the Valley, she would be married, probably have her first child by now, and be looking at a life of toil as a farmer's wife. Now she has a dream to pursue. So what if it's not practical? She has her dream! As I have mine," she added softly, settling back against him. "And that's the final reason I'm ready to go home." A quick, almost chaste kiss, and she said, "What of you, Michael? Leaving America again, coming back to the Valley: are you going home? Or leaving it?"

"Yes," he answered, enjoying the confusion in her eyes. "America is where I was born, and the country that I am loyal to. But the Valley, the Keldara, are my people now, and have been for months. I feel a kinship with you, much more than I ever felt with 'Americans.' Maybe it's your warrior tradition, or your willingness to accept me as I am. Maybe it's just the beer; can't discount that!"

"You!" She flipped over top, pinning him against the bed. He was pretty sure he could break her hold. Probably. She was remarkably strong, though...

She tickled him.

It devolved from there.

==============================

Cold.

Darkness.

"You promised to protect us."

"You lied to us!"

"You have failed your role!"

"You have disgraced your name!"

He tried to speak, but no words would come.

"You are not worthy to be Kildar!"

"She is too good to be your Kildaran!"

Katrina. Tied. Terrified. Suddenly dead!

"Noooo!"

The scream was wrenched from him.

He awoke.

=============================

The change in the engine's pitch awakened them, he convinced himself. He stretched an arm, snagged a headset and pressed the accept button.

"We're beginning our descent into Dulles. We should be on the ground in twenty minutes."

"Thanks." Replacing the intercom, he stretched. "That's a start. Up, minx! Have to make yourself presentable again." He looked down at his own clothing. "And me."

"Ha!" exclaimed Kat. "And you think they'll notice? I may be younger than you, Michael Harmon, but I saw what you did for her."

"What did I do for her?" he asked, all innocence.

She kissed him, bounced off the bed, and said, "You practically threw Jack at her - which is just what she needs right now! You did well." With that, she closed the bathroom door.

Tucking this and buttoning that, he stood gingerly, unkinking his damaged joints. He heard a shower running and briefly thought of jumping in but reconsidered. There'd be plenty of time for that on the long flight overseas. He opened the cabin door and stopped, staring.

Hughes and Stasia were on the couch. Stasia was asleep, curled up against him, one arm wrapped around her protectively. By the faint odors, it hadn't been a completely uneventful flight so far.

Hughes was dozing, not quite asleep but not really aware of his surroundings. Mike watched silently, then cleared his throat.

The look on Hughes' face was priceless, a mix of contentment, confusion, and concern, and Mike had to resist an urge to smile.

"Mike, I didn't - I mean, this isn't -"

"What the holy hell do you think you're doing with my harem manager?" Mike's voice was low and menacing.

Hughes' instinct to pop to attention warred with not disturbing the beautiful woman resting atop him. He compromised as best he could.

"Sir, she was obviously uncomfortable in the early stages of the flight. I stayed close to her to reassure her, and things kind of - developed, from there."

Stasia stirred then subsided.

"Shut your mouth, soldier! I'm not bringing you along so you can get your rocks off! You are here to do a job, and if you can't keep your dick in your pants, you're no good to me!"

"Yes, sir. I understand." Hughes' face was flat with dejection, and Mike couldn't keep up the pretense any longer.

"Ah, forget it. Who said, 'A soldier who won't fuck, won't fight'?" Kat, hearing voices, poked her head out.

"See, Michael? Just what she needed."

Stasia awakened then. A look of horror spread across her face. "Michael!"

"I'll deal with you later, bitch!" he growled. Of course, he had realized the situation quickly. He had been neglecting Stasia's needs for quite a few days, save their brief encounter that afternoon, and since her 'liberation' from the sheik, she had become more vocal, and more comfortable, about expressing her desires.

Kat was right again.

In retrospect, he had practically dragged Jack along for Stasia's benefit. Now, too, she could get both benefits: Jack would take care of her current needs, and then she'd come back to Mike to be punished for her 'transgressions'. As a sub, it was a win-win for her.

Putting these thoughts aside, he continued, "Pull yourselves together. We're going to be landing in DC shortly. Jack, is your case going to be at the airport, or will we have to wait?"

"It should be there," he answered, relief in his voice. "I called after we were airborne and gave an ETA."

"Stasia?"

"All of Noemi's creations, save the dress, will be awaiting our arrival."

"Right." Before he could speak further, the intercom crackled.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're on our final approach to Dulles. Please prepare for landing."

"So much for calling in. You heard the man, everybody into your seats."

==============================

When they were parked at the terminal, and Hardesty announced that fueling would take about twenty minutes, Mike pulled out the sat phone again.

"Nielson." The normally unflappable colonel sounded harried.

"Jenkins. Status?"

"Teams are deployed, en route. Valkyrie is airborne, with an ETA at the LZ about fifteen minutes to retrieve two prisoners and one package. Bravo emplaced and patrolling. Intel is still trying to track the southern force. Where are you?"

"DC to refuel. Ten hours flight time, roughly, to Tbilisi once we're aloft."

"That's going to be tight, trying to get you to the OA before action commences."

"Suggestions? Besides pedal faster."

There was silence as Nielson thought. "Alternate landing site? Groznyy?"

"How far is that from the OA?"

"Two hundred miles, plus or minus."

"Long hop in a Hind. An hour, solid."

"You could fly into Elista. That's only about seventy miles."

"Do they have an airport?"

"A small one, one paved runway."

"Can it handle a G550?"

"Don't know. Depends on how long you need. I can try to find out."

"You work on clearances, and I'll find out from Hardesty how much space he needs to set down. We might just have a plan here."

"The beginnings of one."

"Out." Mike went off in search of the pilot, finding him, as expected, on the tarmac, overseeing the refueling.

"Mr. Jenkins? Can I help you?"

"How long a runway do you need to land this?"

Suspicion settled onto Hardesty's face. "Getting wild and wooly again?"

"Not so much, just trying to find a closer, alternate airport. Just in case."

"Uh-huh." Hardesty's tone was disbelieving. "Can I at least assume you'd have the decency to find me an asphalt runway? Not gravel or grass?"

"Of course!" Mike hastened to reassure him. "Perfectly good tarmac."

"In that case, the specs call for slightly less than nine hundred meters. I could probably shave a little off that if I needed, but it wouldn't be a comfortable landing."

"Nine hundred. Right, thanks." He pivoted to leave, then turned back. "How much longer?"

"Ten more minutes. The rest of your baggage has arrived and been stowed."

"I so didn't need to know that."

==============================

"I need nine hundred meters."

"Elista will work then; it's over eighteen hundred."

"Then plan to have Dragon pick us up there."

"Us? I'm surprised you gave in to Katrina on this."

"Katrina? No, I forgot to tell you: I'm bringing back a passenger, Major Hughes from OSOL. Make sure there's a set of body armor for him as well as mine."

"No Katrina?"

Now Mike was suspicious. "What about Katrina?"

"Should I send along her armor and weapons?"

"What armor and weapons?"

Nielson hesitated. "You didn't know?"

"Know what? Out with it!"

"You might want to ask your fiancée about her training, then," replied Nielson, and refused to say anything else.

==============================

"Chief!"

"Dammit, Kacey, I'm busy!"

"I know, I know. Tasking order from the Colonel."

"Yeah?" D'Allaird's head popped out of the engine compartment.

"After escort duty, land at Elista, pick up the Kildar and passengers, and then to the OA. He said to expect a hot LZ, so we'll want the full anti-personnel package."

"On it. That's quite a distance; we're going to need the aux tanks. That's going to cut into your ammo load."

"Won't fly, Chief. We need gas and guns, however you can manage it."

Shaking his head, D'Allaird said, "It's one or the other. We only have so many hard points, and if we're using some for drop tanks we can't carry weapons on 'em."

"We're not going into Elista hot; what if we carry the weapons packages in the bird?"

He considered this. "Have to be a smooth flight. Don't want rockets rolling around in the crew bay."

"Chief!" Kacey sounded wounded. "It's me! Smooth is my middle name."

D'Allaird snorted. "That's what worries me. Who's going to crew for you?"

"Anechka, I think. She's best at swapping hardware."

"Concur. Who are the passengers?"

"You're never going to believe this."

"Try me."

"The Kildar -"

"No surprise."

"Some Major who's along for the ride -"

"Hope his life insurance is paid up."

"And Katrina."

"You're shitting me!"

"God's truth. Nielson said to make sure I drew her armor and personal weapon from the armory, along with the Kildar's and a spare for the Major."

"Guess she's serious about this Kildaran crap. At least she can run a minigun for you."

"Wonder what the Kildar said to that?"

==============================

"Katrina!" bellowed Mike.

"Yes, Michael?"

"We need to talk," he said sternly.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, "Talk about what?" Instinctively, she went into full defense mode - ready to attack.

"Body armor? Weapons? Ring any bells?"

"What about them?"

"Who the fuck fitted you for body armor, for chrissake?"

"The Chief," she answered matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"It's part of my training. I decided that as your Kildaran, I needed body armor. And a gun. I knew that it would relieve your mind, knowing that I can defend myself. Also, to be a true Kildaran, I must be prepared to stand by you in battle, as other Kildarans have done. We're not simply shield maidens!" Foot stomp.

"After becoming Kildaran, maybe, not before! Jesus, Kat, you drop a bombshell like this on me in the middle of a fucking op, while we're chasing nukes, trying to track down a missing battalion -"

"Michael." She spoke softly, stopping him.

"Yeah?"

"We discussed this. You worry, probably too much, about my safety. This is how I can help assure - no, ensure - my own safety."

"Dammit, Kat, your safety's not the issue!"

"Then what is?"

"Not telling me about your training!"

Exasperatedly, Kat replied, "And how was I to tell you of my training when you spent your time avoiding me?"

"Well -"

"And what exactly would you have me say? 'Michael, I am learning how to shoot so that I can become your Kildaran'? How would you have reacted to that?"

"I - that is -"

"Enough!" Her temper, as fiery as her hair, flared briefly. "I did what I did to become who I am! If you disapprove - tough! It was my choice, my decision, and I would choose so again! Everything I have done - all the classes, learning from Daria and Stasia, shooting and fighting, I have done because of who you need as Kildaran!" She softened her tone. "Even, especially, the lessons from Hiro. This is who I am, now. You want me as I am, now. So, choose, Michael. All or nothing. And I will no longer settle for nothing!"

Thinking rapidly, Michael spoke carefully. "I'll take the all. I was simply surprised."

Dimpling, Kat laughed, "I knew you were smart!"

"Tell me, how far has your training gone? Have you finished basic?"

"Basic? That's for wimps!" She grinned fiercely. "I got perfect scores on the known distance and combat ranges! Oleg oversaw my training to ensure it was to the same standard as the rest of the Keldara. He said that he'd take me on his Team any day. And Lasko has been training me with the Robar - he doesn't think I'm ready for the Barrett, yet, but I'll surprise him soon!" She'd had to hide the bruise from that beast for two weeks. After that, she'd listened to Lasko.

Rolling his eyes, Mike made a hasty retreat. "Okay, okay! Fine, you're well-trained. You could've at least told me about this."

"We've had other things to discuss," she said coquettishly. "Haven't we?" She made a little moue with her lips.

"And just who taught you that? Never mind, I can guess. Catya, I think."

She said nothing, just lowered her eyes demurely and licked her lips. Her hips swayed slowly side to side.

Sigh.
CHAPTER 33

Near Groznyy; The Caravanserai; On a road in Chechnya

April 11

The LZ, Tammy was told, was about sixty klicks north of Groznyy.

That was bad enough. Sure, her bird had, theoretically, thousand-kilometer range with drop tanks. And Groznyy proper was only a short hop from the Valley, as the crow flew.

Crows didn't have to deal with foreign airspace and controlled corridors. Crows didn't have to worry about navigating through four-thousand-meter mountain passes. Crows certainly didn't have to think about the extra fuel they burned off by flying nap-of-the-earth whenever possible. And crows didn't run the risk of being shot at - well, maybe they did, at that. But not with AGMs and heavy machine guns and -

It didn't bear thinking on.

Most Chechens weren't actively rebelling against the government in Moscow.

Most.

Actively.

Small comfort if she should happen to find a pocket of resistance the Russians hadn't yet cleaned up.

Tammy flew fast, and low, precisely along the corridors the Groznyy ATC had assigned her while mumbling every prayer and mantra she had ever heard.

Naida hung on.

===============================

"Where is she?"

"She's coming, Artur," responded a weary Pavel.

They had cleaned out the Chechen's safe house, retrieving two computers, a smart phone, and a trash bag full of papers for Vanner and his girls to tear into, before liberally dousing it with gasoline from the destroyed truck. The bodies had followed.

They'd also scattered plenty of Semtex around the building, setting short ten-minute timers before high tailing out of the area. Evac had been smooth as well, Gerasim fussing over his patients in one truck, Iosif and Artur riding with the nuke in a second, and the rest of his force bringing up the rear.

Instead of heading south, into the more populated areas, he'd made the tactical decision to push north, a more agricultural and, he hoped, sparsely settled area. In that, he had been proven right, traveling through tiny hamlets along a road barely wide enough for one vehicle until they entered an area that seemed totally deserted. Soviet-style agriculture was obviously still the norm here, as huge, geometrically precise fields stretched away on both sides of the road. It was in one of these, five kilometers past the last "town," that he had turned off onto the still-frozen ground. Once the road was out of sight, he'd called a halt.

The two most badly wounded prisoners had succumbed to their injuries on the trip.

"What should we do with them?" asked Gerasim.

"Get two men, dig a hole, and drop them in. Let the dammed Chechens have some fertilizer."

Now, they were awaiting the arrival of Valkyrie. The LZ was marked out, and as secure as five of his troops could make it. He wasn't worried about making it back home; between the Kildar strong-arming the Russians and the firepower they carried, they should manage about anything. But getting rid of the nuke would be good. Losing the prisoners would be better.

===============================

It was a cold LZ.

Rotors turning slowly, the Hind squatted in the field as Keldara hauled a fair-sized box towards them.

"Is that the weapon?" asked a nervous Naida.

"Probably. Find out from Pavel."

"Yes, ma'am." She scrambled out the crew door and hurried over to Pavel. "Is that -?"

"Yes."

"Can they lift it in?"

"It's not as heavy as it looks; much of the box contains padding for transport. You'll have to help us tie it down."

Naida nodded. "Of course! You're warriors, not fliers!" she grinned.

Ignoring the jibe, Pavel continued, "We have two prisoners, and one wounded Keldara going back with you as well."

"Shouldn't be a problem as long as it's not Shota."

"He's not on this mission." Shota was huge, easily the largest of his generation, stronger even than Oleg. Unfortunately, his original mental faculties didn't come close to matching his physical ones, leaving him in an odd position among the Keldara. Currently, he was on a separate, lower-priority mission with Lasko and a couple others.

"Who's injured?"

"Iosif, just an ankle. Gerasim will be with you, too. Between them, they ought to be able to handle the one functional prisoner." As he spoke, the bound and gagged Salah was roughly brought up to await loading.

Naida turned to him and said, in Russian, "I am crew chief on helicopter. If you or your friend try anything, we see if you can fly. You understand?" The frightened would-be martyr nodded. "Good. You might survive the flight." Turning away, she added, "Strap him in next to the door."

Overhearing, Tammy smiled. "That's my girl!"

===============================

Tammy brought the power up slowly. Between carrying a nuclear weapon, tied to the deck with bungee cords and rope, and Gerasim's pleadings for a gentle flight for the survival of Kassab, she didn't see any reason to push her bird's envelope. Slowly, so slowly, she rose from the field, clearing the ground effect and beginning the flight home.

"Keldara Base, this is Valkyrie actual."

"Go Valkyrie," came back the reply.

"Inform Five that we are airborne and en route. Package is secure. Carrying one friendly Whiskey, two Poppa Oscar Whiskey for interrogation, and one escort. Advise that medical team should be on standby for Poppa Oscar Whiskey immediately upon landing."

"Understood two Poppa Oscar Whiskey, one Whiskey, one escort and package. Will notify medical."

"ETA five zero mikes. Will confirm at ten mikes. Out."

===============================

Nielson breathed a small sigh of relief. "Well, they got one. Sounds like you'll have at least prisoner to press for information." He was in the command center with Vanner, fretting over their progress, when Tammy's radio call came in.

"Wish I knew who they captured. Won't do us a dammed bit of good if they grabbed us a couple grunts."

Nielson nodded. "Get what you can from them. Have Dr. Arensky stand by with a medic from the Rangers; Tammy wouldn't call for med support if she didn't believe it critical."

"Gotcha. I'll ask the doc to prepare one of his little formulas, too, to help suck them dry."

"Good idea. Any progress on finding that missing battalion?"

Vanner shook his head. "Not on this end. If they're transmitting, they've been extremely disciplined. We haven't been able to pick out any kind of pattern. It's as if they dropped off the planet."

"That sounds... ominous."

"I agree. I think that this force is the main thrust, and our brain - whoever that really is - is in command. That would explain the professionalism, the radio silence, everything."

"Haven't you any leads?"

"Some. There are a number of small movements currently active in that area, but none have prescribed routes. Their orders seem to have been written, 'Go there,' and left out any details. We've fed all that information back to OSOL, trying to get us 'national technical means' on them -"

"Just say 'satellite', Pat!"

" - and to J. I'm giving him his lead on this one; he's a lot closer to the source than we are."

"What about Ibrahim what's-his-name? Have you figured out who it really is?"

"Not yet. We know he's not really Ibrahim al-Jasir - well, we think we know, it all fits together too perfectly to be anything but a cover - but we're still trying to find a photo of him after the identity was seized -"

A rapid knock interrupted him. Before either man could speak, Greznya burst into the room and slapped a printout on the conference table.

"It's Schwenke!" she exclaimed.

"What? How do you know?"

"The internet, of course. Kseniya, ah, accessed -"

"Hacked. It's okay to say it."

" - hacked the video files of al Jazeera and ran them against known physical characteristics of missing and inactive agents for the past nine months."

"Nine?" asked Vanner.

"Six didn't bring any worthwhile results. I stretched the parameters. Anyways, she's been up all night reviewing the hits when this popped up." She tapped the printout. They could see it was a still taken from video. "Eight months ago, they did a series of interviews with Chechen victims of the war. Human-interest, trying to put a more sympathetic face on the rebellion. Since his father was a prominent member of the community, and both parents were killed, al-Jasir was a natural."

Vanner had picked up the picture and was studying it intently. "Maybe, but this picture could be anyone, not just Schwenke."

"It's not something you can see in a still. The computer picked this out as only a seventy-percent match, but that was high enough for Kseniya to view the whole video. There's one shot of his eyes - it's him. She's sure of it, and so am I."

"I wish Cottontail was here. She could pick him out in a second," added Nielson.

"So do I, Colonel. But this is the best we have."

"Thank you, Sergeant. And let Kseniya know, too." After she left, he said, "If it is Schwenke -"

"It is. She's sure of it, so I am too."

"As I said, if it is, what's his game? What are his plans? Where is he going to go?"

"Time to make a call, I think."

===============================

"It doesn't make any sense!"

Katya was practically yelling into the phone as J drove them south.

"Why not?"

"Kurt doesn't do this shit! He does chemicals and torture, not nuclear blackmail!"

"But he's played with WMD's before, remember?"

"The VX, I know. He didn't really plan that, though, just allowed Gonzalez to use his resources. He perhaps made the link to al-Qaeda."

Kurt Schwenke was the one person who still scared Katya, despite nearly two years of training and being the most lethal person she knew. She knew she was sick in some ways, that she carried her anger, fury, at her past into everything she did. She knew, too, she scared others.

J had taught her much, though. She had discovered, deep within, a slight stirring of empathy for others like her, whores by force, not choice. Women whose lives were only worth what they could bring back to their pimp each night, who sold themselves not in hope of buying their eventual freedom but rather to simply survive another day. And in finding that empathy, she also found she could care, at least a little, for the people who chose to be around her. She might still want to kill every pimp and john on the planet, but she had learned to listen.

Schwenke didn't. He didn't care about the people around him. They were only tools to be used and discarded, if useful. If not, they were ignored, if lucky. Or maybe he'd grab one for fun, using what he termed 'my little cocktails' to cause unimaginable pain. When she looked into his eyes, she saw simply calculation. Not even soulless. Totally blank to emotions, only looking at her as a part of an equation.

"But why did he do that?"

Shrugging, though Vanner couldn't see, she answered, "Money. Or maybe he was bored. He wouldn't do this, though."

"Don't assume," said J. "You have encountered him twice and come away alive both times. That does not make you an expert in his motivations."

"J's right," chimed in Vanner. "Okay, let's try it this way: could he put together an operation of this magnitude? Forget the whys and wherefores; can he do it?"

"Of course he could do it!" she snapped. "If he wanted to he could wipe the whole world clean!"

"Would he?"

"If you paid him enough, yes. Or if he wanted to see what would happen. Or if he burnt his toast. Or if you pissed him off enough -" She froze. "Oh my God."

J pulled over, stopped, and looked at her in concern.

"Katya? What?" Vanner's voice came from the phone but she didn't hear it.

"Who has pissed him off the most, recently?" asked J quietly.

"I have," she answered, equally quietly. "It's me. He's coming after me."

"Katya!" Vanner was shouting over the phone. "Fucking hell, what?!"

Nervelessly she raised the phone to her lips. "He's coming to the valley, coming after me."

CHAPTER 34

On the road from the Valley, somewhere in Russia; Moscow; The Caravanserai; The Valley; Airborne over Europe

April 12

"Keldara Base to Dragon flight, request status, over."

"Nominal at this time. Over."

"Understood. Report at next way point."

"Roger, out."

Kacey was flying a thousand feet above the convoy from the valley, acting as their air control and, if needed, fire support. So far, she hadn't had to open up on any targets, but the day was still young. They hadn't even slowed through the Georgian checkpoints, as far as she could tell. Crossing the border, onto the Russian A301, had been problem-free as well. She hoped that the travel would continue to be problem-free; the tough roads lay ahead.

In the meantime, she'd stay overhead, observing and guiding.

===============================

"Fucking Russian roads."

Adams' words were almost drowned out by the pounding of the lead van along the so-called 'highway.' In the interests of finding the most direct route with the fewest number of potentially prying eyes, they had turned off the M29 near Sunzhensky and were now grinding generally northeast.

He didn't know the name of this road; hell, he didn't know if it even had a name. The only thing he was sure of was, between the GPS and Dragon, he was on the right road. And soon - please God soon! - they'd be on what looked to be a much more major thoroughfare. Maybe it'd be paved.

"It's not so bad," opined Jachin, riding shotgun.

"Fuck lot you know. Until two years ago you thought a horse was the way to get around." Adams had driven all night. With Inarov expecting a report by sundown, they had a good distance to cover and still leave time to get in position. He was wiped.

"It would be smoother than this," admitted Jachin. "Where are we?"

"According to the SatNav, we are exactly in - the middle of nowhere." That earned him a chuckle. "And we're coming up on more nowhere. All the others still with us? Because we're coming up on the Far End of Nowhere real soon, if they blink, they'll miss it."

Jachin consulted his tracker. Every truck had been equipped with a frequency-hopping transmitter to help keep them all together. "All except Gregor. I think he stopped for a piss. Again." One of the recessive mutations the Keldara had picked up over the centuries was a tendency to have four kidneys, rather than two. None of them were aware of it, but ones with the extra set tended to legendary for two reasons: their astounding, even for Keldara, ability to drink, and their seemingly constant need to urinate. Gregor had the gene, and the kidneys. He also was one of the best drivers the militia had, so Adams wasn't too worried. He'd catch up.

He lifted the radio. "Orkin trailers, this is Orkin lead. Status check." The code name for the force was chosen by Vanner, saying, "You're going to exterminate them, right?"

"Two, nominal."

"Three, nominal."

Down the line they rolled, until they reached Gregor's.

"Eight, holding on, ah, fluid dispersal. Underway momentarily."

"I was right," said Jachin quietly.

===============================

Erkin Chechnik was worried. Again.

Data was flowing from his office to the caravanserai as quickly as it arrived, temporarily sating even Vanner's demands for information.

Two battalions of troops, battle-hardened veterans of the seemingly endless Chechen wars, were being deployed to support the Mountain Tigers.

He'd even managed to clear airspace for the Kildar's choppers, though not without some significant restrictions.

Now, though, he had to meet with Putin and update the situation. Siberia was still a possibility.

===============================

"We're fucked."

Vanner's pessimistic assessment sat heavily in the command room. Nielson, Vanner, Greznya, and Guerrin were gathered to evaluate Cottontail's conclusion.

"If she's right -" began Nielson.

"Oh, she's right. One sociopath can always pick out another."

" - then we have forces in place to deal with the threat," he finished. "We have a company of Rangers, fully integrated and deployed for just this kind of situation. We've the new sensor net emplaced, and mines too. I'll have Grez ensure that the Rangers' Op-Net is online and synched." He nodded at Guerrin in acknowledgement.

"Is Bravo prepared to deal with a nuke going off in their laps?"

"Rein in that shit, Warrant!" barked Nielson. "Grez? How do we localize this force, fast?"

"Unless they transmit, we have no way, here, to isolate them."

"Not what I wanted to hear. Are we getting any feed from the U-2?"

"Nothing direct."

"I'll get that changed. Will that help?"

"Yeah, it'll help," supplied Vanner, rejoining the conversation. "If we can compare photos, generate a track, we'll know which ones are headed this way."

"And how quickly will that work?"

"To narrow it down, say two or three passes, about fifteen minutes apart. That'll take care of any strays. To make it definite? Not until they cross the Georgian border."

"How do we stop them?" asked Guerrin. "My troops, and your mortars, can keep them out of the Valley. If they're toting a nuke, though, they don't need to come anywhere near here. Just a single truck - shit, a single mule! - would probably be enough to bring it in."

Nodding, Greznya suggested, "Push the perimeter far, far out. Beyond the mountains. Stop all traffic heading this way."

"Got it. Can do."

"Needless to say, Captain, the possible presence of nuclear arms is on a need-to-know basis. Obviously, your perimeter squads have to know what they're looking for -"

"But the guys in the 240 nests don't. Understood."

"Let's be about it, people."

===============================

"Pierson."

"Colonel, Chief Vanner. The U-2V is on station?"

"Yes, you should be getting the feed relayed to you now."

"We need it retasked, and we need the feed direct."

"Retasking, I can do. Direct feed might be an issue."

"Cottontail thinks that the Valley is a target of one of the nukes."

"Shit."

"Exactly. We think we can isolate the transport, but we're going to need help."

"I understand. No promises, but what do you need?"

"To begin with..."

===============================

"Ah, Colonel Nielson. Always a pleasure talking with you."

"And you, General Umarov."

"Your mission proceeds well?"

"Fairly well. I can't go into specifics, you understand -"

"Of course, of course!"

" - but plans are coming together."

"Excellent! So. How can the Georgian army help the Mountain Tigers today?"

"General, we have developed intelligence that one or more nuclear weapons may be in transit into Georgia. Unfortunately, we are not in a position to intercept at this time."

"This is a serious matter indeed!" Umarov's usually humor-tinged voice was deep with concern. "Where? How many?"

"We are attempting to determine precise routes and force composition at this time."

"And a target?"

Nielson hesitated, then admitted, "High probability that the target is the valley. Tbilisi is a potential target as well."

"Again, how can we help?"

"We believe that the weapon, weapons, are being transported via truck, south from Russia and through Chechnya."

"That is simplicity itself! There is only the single road leading to your valley; a company of paratroops will be in place for interdiction in two hours."

"Where will you station them?"

"I assume you can assure security for the valley itself?"

"Yes. Our regular patrols cover out to about fifteen kilometers." No need to mention that it was a company of Rangers doing the patrolling, not Keldara.

"Then my troops will be ten kilometers further down the road."

"Thank you, General." He paused before continuing. "I hesitate to ask, but what of the Pankisi?"

Umarov laughed. "The Pankisi is no threat any longer, thanks to the Kildar! No, you have no reason to be concerned there."

"That is very good news indeed, General."

"If there is nothing else, Colonel?"

"No, thank you sir."

"Then I shall begin issuing orders. Good day - and good hunting!"

===============================

Andy walked into the mortar emplacement ahead of his usual schedule.

"Corporal Sivula! Jessia isn't here, yet."

He shook his head. His engagement to Jessia had been received with equal parts respect and curiosity among the mortar teams. All were young women, some married, many not. All knew of Greznya's marriage to Vanner, but aside from that exception, no outsider had married a Keldara woman in living memory. Mother Lenka was from Russia, somewhere, but she, too, was unusual. He sometimes felt like an exhibit at the zoo.

Still, it didn't prevent him from making his rounds of the mortars twice a day, checking alignment and readiness. Usually Jessia was on duty and would walk with him as one of the mortar leaders.

Today he was early.

"I know. Have to inspect, though."

By the time he'd reached the third emplacement, word of his broken routine had spread all along the teams. As he was finishing this inspection, Jessia arrived.

"What's going on?" she asked directly upon arriving.

"Good morning to you, too," he answered.

"Why are you out here early?"

"Oh, am I early?" he answered, innocently.

"Andrew!"

"I'll tell you, but not in here," he said quietly. Walking out of the pit, she took his hand. As soon as they were a few feet away, she stopped.

"Now. Tell."

"A little while ago, the Captain told us that there's a pretty good-sized force maybe heading this way."

"How many? And from what direction?"

"Couple hundred? Maybe more. And they're moving from Russia."

"So." She released his hand and began walking to the next pit. "Not on foot?"

"No, trucks."

"We need to change the load mix for each mortar, then. More HE, less frag. Some smoke will help, though; we'll keep those in the queue." Moving briskly, she strode on. "If they're in trucks, they won't be able to handle the passes. They'll have to use the road -"

"That's what the Captain said. He wants us to concentrate our fire on the Alersso road."

"Most of it, I agree. But there is another road, you know."

"The old east road? It's not much more than a track now. I know; I've marched it."

"A heavy truck could get along it."

He shook his head. "That's crazy."

"No, that leads to the Pankisi."

"I thought that was pretty well controlled, lately."

"Lately, yes. But there's another road, before you reach the Pankisi. It's steep, and treacherous, but it leads south, past the Pankisi. Few people remember it."

"What do you think, then?"

"I think we need to have it covered, at least two teams."

"You're the expert; I bow to your knowledge." And he did.

Blushing, embarrassed, Jessia pulled him along. "Come on. We have much to do."

===============================

"Yes, Mr. Jenkins?"

"How fast can this plane go?"

"Specs list five hundred eighty-five mph, ground speed. She'll do a bit better than that in a pinch. Call it six hundred, even."

"It's a pinch. Punch it."

"We'll need to stop for fuel, then. At top speed she's a bit of a pig."

"Whatever. Situation's changed; I need to get back sooner than soonest."

"Very good, sir." Mike heard the drone of the engines suddenly increase in pitch.

"What's up?" asked Hughes.

"Problems at home," he answered. "While most of the Tigers are off dealing with Inarov and his nest of vipers, another swarm has slipped away. We don't know where they're going, or if they're packing, but one of my agents has a hunch. The plan is, get back quick as we can, wipe out Inarov, and get home before the other force shows."

"And if that doesn't work out?"

"Then I'm really gonna be pissed."

Kat who had listened to the exchange, spoke. "What happened?"

"Quite a bit." Briefly, he explained, Kat remaining still the whole time. When he finished, she asked only, "And now, where do we go?"

"We fly into Elista, drop off the Major and me, and then you and Stasia continue to Tbilisi -"

"Fuck that!" The vulgarity, shouted in English, shocked him into silence. In Keldaran, she continued angrily, "By the Goddess, if you think that I will run away to safety while my husband-to-be battles for our very survival, then you have still much to learn about me!"

"You're not running away! I don't know that you're ready for combat!"

"Combat? Against the Chechens?" She laughed harshly. "Have you forgotten, they attempted to abduct me? Or that I followed Mother Lenka up the ridge, bearing only knives and an axe, to destroy the men who would have killed you? Oh no, Michael. You can send Stasia back to the valley; my place is by your side, slaughtering our enemies."

"I am not sure I wish to go to the valley, Kildar." Mike whirled to face Stasia. Shrugging, she added, "If what you say is correct, that a nuclear weapon might be used on the valley?" He could only nod. "Then I think the safest place would be away from there. I will not follow you into combat! But I would prefer to stay with the plane in Elista."

Looking from one to the other, Mike said, "You're a pair of fucking crazy bitches, you know that?"

"That's why you love me," smirked Kat.
CHAPTER 35

Near Lake Kek-Usn; Moscow; The Caravanserai; A Road in Russia

April 12

Ibrahim's subordinates all marveled at his abilities. Oh, he was the very devil incarnate if you failed him, but his plans always succeeded if executed properly.

There had been grumbling, initially, at the depth of the current mission. Elements had been in play for weeks before the theft of the weapons: late night forays to the Prikumskij Military Depot; surveying the targeted vehicles; acquiring - legitimately! - the necessary parts; making repairs as the oblivious guards inadvertently kept any passers-by from disturbing their work! Surely a sign from Allah!

The raid, itself. As perfect a mission as ever accomplished by the Chechen rebellion. Not a single martyr! Dying for Allah was glorious, praise to Him and His prophet - but not yet!

A few glitches in rearming the weapons - but was that truly Ibrahim's fault? It was the atheist pig Russians who hadn't maintained them, after all. And Ibrahim had recognized the problem quickly, moving to solve it in a way that would be difficult to trace back. Again, was it his fault the orders were delayed? Of course not! Why, he even argued with the Emir about the alternate, more dangerous method of replenishing the tritium! Even though he lost that battle, the men still appreciated it.

And now, this - glorious! All their vehicles retrieved, combined, and divided again. The larger group took the heavy trucks and transports, except one ZIL-E, and the jeeps. They also had the weapon. Ibrahim had explained; his reasoning was two-fold. First, since they had much more capable vehicles, it was more likely they would complete the mission. Going off-road, while it carried considerable risk, also raised the probability of avoiding detection or, if spotted, interception. Even if intercepted, they carried the bulk of the fighters, so should be able to deal with the infidels.

Second, Ibrahim's much smaller group would serve as a decoy, as needed. He'd even brought another weapon's crate, to provide the ring of truth. His was the much more dangerous mission, too, driving the M-23s in plain sight, escorting his ZIL-E, down the coast of the Caspian Sea all the way to Baku, then turning west through Azerbaijan. He only took twenty men, as well!

Inshallah, they would perform well. Or they would be martyrs and be served in Paradise! Either way, their mission was simple enough: drive south, avoid contact as much as possible, halt north of the target, and drive in the weapon on a GAZ-69. Detonate when inside the valley proper, and that lucky fedayeen would be an instant martyr! Then, back to the Emir, and lead him in triumph to his Allah-inspired Emirate!

And Ibrahim?

Funny, wasn't it? How he didn't mention what would happen to him after the mission? Allah would certainly protect His most faithful warrior!

Wouldn't He?

===============================

"...and two battalions from the 58th Army, 5th Motor Rifle Division, have been ordered to coordinate with the Keldara as needed."

"Good thinking, Colonel. I approve entirely." Chechnik relaxed briefly, then Putin continued. "However, I would like to - suggest - a slight change in the mission parameters."

"Yes, Prime Minister?"

"If the Keldara call for support, by all means, allow the 5th MRD to engage the enemy. Just be precise who the enemy actually is: the Keldara."

"Sir? What are you suggesting?"

"It is simple, Chechnik. The loyal troops of our Ground Force are to eliminate every enemy combatant, whether rebel or foreign. I will not be embarrassed by the Ami again, not their blackass president and certainly not this mercenary Kildar! Kill them all, Chechnik. Then we can bury this incident with the unmourned dead."

"Yes, sir."

"Dismissed."

Fuck.

Follow orders and betray the Keldara again, or disobey and hello, Siberia. Either way, his career, at the very least, was over. It was his choice as to how.

An exit strategy began to form in his mind. Who to call? Who to trust? He knew of more than a few men would love to go 'freelance' and move to warmer climes. Thailand, perhaps.

===============================

"Keldara House, Lilia Mahona speaking, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Colonel Nielson, and quickly, please! Tell him it's Chechnik!"

Seconds later: "Nielson."

"Colonel, I understand you are moving against Inarov today?"

"Yes. Very soon, we hope. Were you able to secure support?"

"I have, but this is very important: do not utilize them!"

"What? Why not?"

"I may not say, Colonel. I would ask you to trust me."

"Not fucking likely! I remember the last time you gave us advice!"

"Colonel, I beg of you - do not call for their support! After, I will explain." If I'm around, he mentally added. "Any forces you can bring to bear, do so! But not the Russian Ground Force!"

Nielson, thoughtful, said, "This isn't simple cowardice. Or a desire to cover your own ass if it all goes south. Is it?"

"No, Colonel. I cannot say more. Good luck - and remember the tale of the scorpion and the fox!" With that the line went dead.

===============================

"Scorpion and fox?" asked Greznya, after the brief recording had been played. "What is that?"

Vanner, Nielson and Grez were meeting again after Chechnik's mysterious phone call.

"It's a fable, I'm not sure of the origin -"

"I've heard Middle Eastern and also Native American," added Vanner.

"Anyway, there's a river. A fox and a scorpion both need to cross, but only the fox can swim. The scorpion begs to be carried across, but the fox refuses, saying that the scorpion would sting him. The scorpion swears that he won't sting, and finally the fox relents. Midway, the scorpion stings the fox and, as the poison takes effect, the fox says, 'Why did you sting? Now we shall both die!' To which the scorpion replies, 'It's my nature.' What Chechnik meant, though - who is the fox? And the scorpion?"

"I vote them as the scorpion," snorted Vanner. "We already know we can't trust them."

"I concur," said Grez. "And I think I understand what Chechnik intended, too."

Nielson gave a, 'come on' gesture.

"Listen carefully." She replayed the recording again. "It's in what he does not say, as much as what he does. 'May not' - he is doing this without permission. 'I would ask you to trust me' - but he won't ask, knowing we won't trust. 'Do not call for their support' - but he specifically tells you that support is acceptable." She stopped, looking confident. "I think that he was ordered to betray us again, but this time is refusing as best he can."

"Finally grew a set," muttered Vanner. "Ow!"

Drawing back her foot, Grez continued. "It is not his balls that are in question here. I think that he's playing a dangerous game here, trying to balance his loyalty to his country with his desire to take the honorable road."

"Who could give this order?" asked Nielson.

"We don't even know what the order is!" protested Vanner. "Maybe he's trying to set us up, make us refuse to call for help so that, if we fail, his hands are clean!"

"I disagree," said Grez. "As for the order? Anyone in the Ground Force chain of command could deal with the troops, but Chechnik reports directly to the Prime Minister."

"Putin." The venom in Vanner's tone was palpable.

"Exactly. We know he is capable of giving orders purely for the benefit of Russia; why would he not do it again?"

"It all fits," admitted Nielson. "Chechnik didn't sound like he was trying to pull a fast one. Pat, you've talked with him in person most recently. Do you think he could pull this off?"

Slowly, Vanner shook his head. "When he came to the caravanserai, I was ready to waste him when he walked in the door. But I could see, hear, that he genuinely regretted not passing on the intel. Made it tougher to hammer him. No, I think Grez is right."

"Thank you." She beamed at her husband. "So. What do we do now?"

"Continue on mission," replied Nielson. "What else? There's better than five full Teams of the best-trained militia I have ever worked with moving into place, men who are tested, proven, and have a grudge to settle with Chechens. Even though I wish Shota's Team was available -" A purely evil grin split his face. "Frankly, I don't think they'd want to share."

===============================

Ibrahim's small convoy made slow progress down the M215 near the Caspian Sea. While the escort vehicles could still manage over a hundred kph, the ZIL-E, massive and overpowered as it was, was still designed for rough terrain capabilities rather than speed. It was, therefore, a relative crawl of thirty-five kph at which they crept south.

Uniforms of the Southern Operational Strategic Command, and matching papers, had been found for all his men. They had been extremely difficult to obtain in any quantity, becoming the main limiting factor in his selection of fedayeen.

There had been much grumbling when, soon after separating from the rest, Ibrahim had insisted they stop and shave off their beards. "The Prophet decreed that men should be bearded!" protested several the mujahideen. Surprisingly, Ibrahim took this calmly, explaining that, for their role to be successful, they had to imitate, as perfectly as possible, the look and behavior of the godless infidels. "Allah shall forgive you, for we act for His glory!" So, reluctantly, scissors and razors appeared, and beards were removed.

There had been louder protests at his insistence they eat the Russian-supplied combat rations, with their unclean food. So many of them contained pork in one manner or another! The other meats - were they halal? Was it properly slaughtered? Probably not. "You will need your strength on our holy mission," insisted Ibrahim, and eventually they listened.

And no daily prayers. THAT raised a furor! As he explained, though, it would be difficult to conceal the halting of their convoy five times a day, at what would inevitably end up being random locations. "Allah knows what is in your hearts. He knows you make this sacrifice for Him." Finally, after considerable debate, they acquiesced.

The inevitable bottles of vodka didn't create any discussion.

At this speed, Ibrahim estimated that it would take thirty-six hours of constant travel to cover the nearly 1200 kilometers. Being a good commander, he doubled that estimate to three days. "We shall gaze upon the scorched remains of the enemies of Islam and celebrate. We shall rejoice in seeing their bones scattered across their blasted lands. Then we shall return in glory to our brethren."

Schwenke, alone in the rear compartment, surreptitiously fondled the arming key for the 150-kiloton weapon crated beside him in the ZIL-E.
CHAPTER 36

The Valley; On the Road to Kek-Usn; Scotland

April 12

Tammy touched down smoothly, of course. Perhaps a touch more smoothly than usual, given her cargo. Dr. Arensky and two of the Rangers rushed to the crew door before the rotor blades fairly slowed.

"Gently but quickly!" he admonished as the stretcher bearing Kassab banged against the frame. "It would be a shame for him to die without even a chance to talk to us!" With surprising rapidity, the unconscious muj leader was borne off to Arensky's hospital slash laboratory.

Salah wasn't treated quite as carefully.

"Out, you fuck!" snarled Iosif. The pain medication had worn off, and his ankle was throbbing. The hobbled prisoner half-fell out the door and was immediately dragged upright by another Ranger.

Tammy slid open a window and called out, "Is anyone going to remove the nuclear weapon from my bird? Please?"

=================================

Adams altered the route in Solomenskoye.

"Orkin lead, Dragon. You've missed your turn."

"Dragon, I didn't miss the fucking turn, I'm not taking it!" he snarled.

"Dammit, Chief, where the hell are you going?" barked Kacey.

"I'm taking a better road!"

"Look, Chief, I understand you're not as young as you once were, but -"  
"Stuff it, Captain! This has nothing to do with my comfort! It's almost eleven, and the GPS estimates our drive time at another three hours taking those roads. If I take the main road, yeah, it adds another sixty kilometers, but it actually reduces the total time by over an hour!" Releasing the transmit button, he added, "And it'll give our asses a break!"

Wincing, Jachin just nodded.

"Gotcha, Chief. Makes sense. I'll still have plenty of fuel to reach resupply in Elista. Have you called in to the Colonel yet?"

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until we were well past the turn. You know the old saying, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission."

"Roger that! Okay, I'll check out the new route." Lowering the nose, the Dragon flew off to the west.

As they settled into the much smoother, faster road, Adams said, "Okay, Keldara. Mission overview."

"Yes, Chief," replied Jachin resignedly. They'd already gone over it five times since crossing the border but, he reflected, it was a small price to pay for the relative comfort of the front seat. "Arrive in OA by fifteen hundred local time. Deploy Team Vil to secure perimeter, while Team Oleg establishes our position. Dragon will orbit at two thousand feet, five miles out, until security is established or thirty minutes, at which time she will depart to refuel. Team Padrek will take the east, Yosif to the north and Sawn to the south, with Oleg and Vil in mobile reserve roles. Sundown is eighteen thirteen hours, with full dark expected within another forty minutes. Assuming we remain undetected, assault is to commence at twenty hundred hours."

"And then?"

"Then we kill them all!"

Smiling, Adams corrected, "Well, not all."

"If possible, we are to capture Inarov. Priority, though, is given to capturing the nuclear arms intact."

"Good! And the Evac plan?"

"North, to Yashkul, then west, to Elista. Aviation transport has been arranged for both the men and weapons."

"Wounded?"

"Valkyrie will carry critically wounded Keldara back to the valley or other designated location. Non-critical injuries will travel with their Teams."

"And the dead?"

"Will be carried in honor to the valley for the final voyage of the fallen."

"Bang on! Guess you have been listening!" Adams stretched as best he could in the seat. "Your turn," he said, pulling the van over.

"My turn?"

"Yeah, you're driving. It's easy. Go faster on the right, go slower on the left, and turn right at Zelenokumsk. Piece of cake!" Unbuckling, he opened the door as the radio crackled again.

"Orkin Lead, Dragon. Problem?"

"Negative, Dragon. Switching drivers. Underway momentarily, out." Adams walked around the front as Jachin slid over to the driver's seat. He fastened the belt, reclined the chair, and said, "Wake me when we hit Prikumskij." In seconds, he was asleep and snoring lightly. Well, lightly for the Chief, at least.

"Father of All," Jachin whispered.

=================================

It was bitterly cold on the eastern shore of Kek-Usn. West winds blew across the still-frozen surface, bending back the scrubby pine and fir trees stubbornly clinging to the rocks and sweeping over the low ridge that held Inarov's caverns.

Bare rock above allowed for distant sightlines, at least from the southwest to northwest. Multiple-meter-tall snow drifts, deposited by the constant winds, helped conceal the entrance on the eastern ridge face. A single narrow track, just wide enough for a single vehicle, wound its way two kilometers from the east, through the heavy woods. The trees were monsters, two and three meters thick, centuries old. Sparse undergrowth, still brushed with snow, was scattered between the trunks.

Guard duty was not exactly a plum assignment. In truth, during these winter months, it was punishment duty. Always cold, often wet as well. Three men were usually assigned, one stationed beside the entrance, one in a crude rock shelter atop the ridge, and the third just within the edge of the forest. In theory, they rotated from post to post each hour, for all of their eight-hour shift, to provide fresh eyes. In practice, they tended to congregate at the entrance, at least until forced to return to their posts.

Today was no exception. Haytham, usually a cook, had been selected for accidentally substituting salt for sugar in the Emir's morning coffee; Kateb, supposedly a trained mechanic, still hadn't managed to repair the transmission on one of their few trucks; and Qays was, well, a fuck-up. His squad leader hated him, he was sure. Every day it seemed there was a problem with his bunk, or his weapon, or how he performed his review, or just about everything possible to be gigged for. He'd begun to regret joining the rebellion. At least, if was home, he'd be warm. He'd have hot food. He'd be able to go to the mosque for his daily prayers, instead of bowing on a cold rock!

"Another day in the cold," groused Haytham. It was noon. Their shift officially began before the midday prayers, but the early guards always came in before prayer, to warm up, and the next group never went out before completing their prayers, to stay warm as long as possible. It made for a gap in the security, but this was the far side of nowhere. Who was going to find them?

"Hope you brought your tea," chortled Kateb to Qays. "You get first shift on the rocks."

"Allah be merciful, not again!"

"Don't complain, you're closer to Allah up there!" Qays turned and began the long trudge up to his perch. Eight couldn't come soon enough.

=================================

They landed at Wick, at the very tip of northern Scotland in Caithness, to refuel. A former RAF base, it retained many of the original buildings, including the control tower. Climbing down into the afternoon sunshine, Mike remarked, "Christ, feels like we're ready for the Battle of Britain here!" An old DC-3 Dakota, resplendent in RAF livery, and a gorgeously maintained twin-tailed Lockheed Electra were parked at the end of the taxiway, near the tower. He half-expected to see a squadron of Hurricanes come in for a landing.

Kat followed, blinking. "Where are we?"

"Scotland. You should feel right at home here; after all, this is where we think the Keldara came from, originally."

"Oh yes! Yulia tells me all about it. There's something called 'haggis' she wants to try to make, says it comes from here."

Mike made a face. SEALs had to eat all sorts of weird shit, but deliberately stuffing a sheep's stomach with its heart, liver, and lungs, throwing in some herbs and oatmeal and boiling the whole mess just didn't appeal. "Remind me not to accept that dinner invitation," was what he said.

"Why?"

"Ask Yulia how she plans to make it." Pausing to consider some of the odd ceremonies of the Keldara, he backtracked. "On second thought, don't. You'll probably like it."

"Think I can get one here?"

"I don't know if we'll have the time, honestly. It shouldn't take more than twenty minutes to finish fueling, and we have no transport." Seeing her face fall, he relented. "If you want to look in the airport, I suppose there's no harm in it."

"Come with me!" she insisted.

"No, I've got to talk to Nielson again, get an update while we're on the ground. Take Stasia, see what you can find."

"Stasia!" yelled Kat into the plane. "Come out here! And bring your purse!"

Lord, what did I get myself into?

=================================

"SitRep?"

"Actually, Orkin is ahead of schedule."

"Orkin? Who the fuck - wait. Vanner."

"Got it in one."

"Right."

"Valkyrie has returned with two wounded tangoes, one a leader, though he may not survive; one wounded Keldara, just a sprained ankle; and a rather large package."

"How large?"

"Deuce."

Mike whistled. "Guess they were serious about Groznyy. Any other news?"

"No more good news, I'm afraid."

"Hit me."

"We think that the Russians have set us up for betrayal again."

"I'll kill that son-of-a-bitch Chechnik!"

"It's not Chechnik!" interjected Nielson. "He's the one who warned us!"

"Who, then? I want a name."

"Your old buddy Vlad."

Mike's voice, when he spoke again, was full of menace. "We're going to have some extra nukes lying around, won't we?"

"Later for that. Focus!"

"Oh, I'm focused. Believe you me. What are we doing about it?"

"Nothing, for now. Grez believes, and I concur, that the trap will only be sprung if we call the Ground Force in."

"We ought to call them in just so we can royally fuck them over."

"Will you listen to me? It's not the men, it's not Chechnik, it's Putin behind this! Deal - with - him - later! Got that, SEAL?"

"Got it, Colonel," Mike ground out. "Anything else?"

"Kseniya might have figured out who the mysterious Ibrahim really is, and Cottontail thinks she knows where he's headed and why."

"I thought you said there wasn't any more good news?"

"This isn't good. It's Schwenke, and he's coming to the valley."

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!"

"That's about it," agreed Nielson.

"Dammit all to hell!" Mike took a deep breath. "Okay. We have the Rangers, and I assume you've screamed for help from Umarov?"

"Yes and yes. We're pushing the Ranger patrols out further, interdict everything moving before it gets close enough to do damage. Umarov's setting up roadblocks and checkpoints as well."

"Good. Make sure the mortars get involved; I won't forget about them again!"

"Already taken care of; Jessia Mahona and Corporal Sivula were all over it this morning. Oh, one more thing," he added diffidently. "Should I talk to Father Kulcyanov, or would you rather?"

"About what?"

"Evacuating the valley, just in case."

"No, and don't insult him that way. He might just have one more good swing of the axe left. You've studied the Keldara damn near as much as Vanner and I; what makes you think they'll cut and run just because their latest enemy is using a nuke instead of guns?" He laughed harshly. "A glorious defence against hopeless odds? They'd all get their ticket punched right for Valhalla! Think they'll turn that down?"

"If you asked them - yes."

"If I asked them. But I won't. This belief is right at their core; questioning it at all could rob them of what makes them so special. No."

"I agree, but I thought I should at least mention it to you."

"Gotcha. Anything else?"

"No. The assault should begin on schedule, in a little more than, ah, three hours. What's your ETA for Elista?"

"As soon as we refuel, about the same, maybe less if we can pick up a decent tail wind."

"That's going to be tough on the teams if they don't have Dragon for air support."

"You're right. Can Valkyrie make it to Elista in time?"

"If she can't, she'll be dammed close."

"Make it so. God, I sound like Picard!" Nielson chuckled at the aside. "Is Kacey already carrying my armor?"

"Yours, the extra set for Hughes, and Kat's."

"I don't want to ask -"

"Then don't."

"I won't. What weapons did you pack for me?"

"You've got a Barrett and an M4."

"And the others?"

"M4's as well. Adams is toting plenty of extra ammo, so we went light on your initial load."

"Makes sense. Have Kacey drop it with one of the Evac flights." He noticed Kat and Stasia returning, toting several bags, and the fuel tender unhooking. "Looks like we're almost done here. Good hunting, and tell the Chief to save a few of the bastards for me."

Kat was carrying a large cloth bag and a much smaller paper bag.

"I'm guessing you found haggis?"

"Not just haggis," she replied happily, "But bannock! 'Bealtaine Bannock,' they called it. That's like our Beltane, isn't it?"

"I believe so." Climbing the steps, he pointed. "What's in the other bag?"

"That's for you; I'll show you on the plane. It's called Old Pulteney; the lady in the shop said it was the best scotch whiskey you could buy. I think. It was difficult to understand her!"

"I imagine so!" Boarding completed, a crewman pulled the door shut. Almost instantly they began to roll onto the runway. As they turned, Mike was looking out the window. Opposite the DC-3, hidden from sight on approach, was a P-51 Mustang.

"It IS still WWII here!" he said as they rushed down the runway and leapt into the air again.
CHAPTER 37

The Caravanserai; Kek-Usn; Airborne over Europe; Elista

April 12

Salah was in the dungeons, waiting in the dark.

The room was on the second sub-basement of the caravanserai, one of the deepest parts of the building, and was constantly clammy, despite the recently installed concrete walls and floor. If he'd been able to see, the presence of a drain would have caused great concern. But he'd been blindfolded almost immediately after stumbling out of the helicopter, and, though it had since been removed, there simply was no light in the room. He was shackled to the chair he sat in which was, in turn, bolted to the floor. He wasn't going anywhere soon.

Observing him with infrared cameras, Lilia asked, "How much longer do you think he needs?"

"Only a few minutes more," answered Olga. The two intelligence specialists had been assigned to extract information from this prisoner. They'd shown a knack, over the past year and a half, at getting their subjects to open up without bringing the sledgehammers out. And while few of their sources had survived, at least it cut down on the immediate bloodshed. "See how he's slumped down? That's pretty typical of his resistance being broken."

"But he's been like that practically since he arrived!" argued Lilia. The younger of the two, she was much more willing to take an aggressive stance. She fell naturally into the 'bad cop' role.

"So? Remember, this wretch has had it rough, even before he was captured. I don't think there was much spirit to break." Olga, expecting her first child in a few short weeks, twisted in her chair to relieve the pressure on her back. "I have an idea. What if you..."

=============================

The high-intensity lights blinded Salah with their white glare as they suddenly came on. He didn't hear the heavy door open, or Lilia's light footsteps, as he blinked furiously against the tears.

"Your name is Salah," was the first thing he heard, a soft, lilting, feminine voice - in Arabic, the language of the Prophet!

"Are you a houri?"

The laughter was gentle. "Not for you! No such luck for you, unfortunate one. I am Lilia, and I am come to ask you questions. You would be wise to answer them."

Salah's voice showed his dejection as clearly as his face. "I will answer you, houri Lilia."

Olga's laughter could barely be contained. Lilia? A houri?

=============================

Very quickly, Lilia plumbed the shallow depths of Salah's knowledge and reported upstairs.

"He went where he was told, when he was told, and did what he was told. Beyond that? He knows he's fighting to establish an Emirate, he's seen the would-be Emir, and he reads his Qur'an daily."

"A drone," commented Stella. "Do you think he's worth holding onto for further questioning?"

"Honestly, I don't know if he's worth wasting a bullet on. If there's a less knowledgeable mujahideen out there, I've yet to meet him!"

"What do you suggest we do with him, then?"

"I have an idea..."

=============================

A cold wind blew against Salah's face as the vehicle door opened. Pushed, again, he stumbled out into the snow. Stripping the blindfold away, his eyes quickly adjusted to the fading light. He turned to see Lilia, bundled in arctic gear, pointing an assault rifle at his middle.

"What is this?" he asked.

"Mercy. You're too stupid to be any good to us, and you're too pitiful to kill. So." She tossed a worn coat and backpack at him. "Chechnya, and Kvanada, is that way." She gestured. "If you're lucky, you might be able to find a road." She very deliberately cocked the weapon. "Start walking."

=============================

"He's stabilized. He may even live," said Arensky, dropping into a seat. "I repaired what I could, loaded him with antibiotics, and closed him up."

"When can we talk to him?"

"You can talk to him any time you choose," shrugged Arensky. "He won't answer until he's conscious, and that could be hours, even days."

"Don't you have some sort of chemical concoction that would -"

"Wake him up? Oh, many. They won't do any good right now, though."

"Why not? He's a dammed Chechen -"

"Oh, no!" Arensky chuckled. "No ethical reason holds me back. No, it's simply that until the anesthetics I used clear his system, I'm afraid that any stimulant I apply will simply, well, kill him."

"That would be a problem," admitted Vanner. "I don't suppose you have some sort of brain scan, mind-reading device down in your lab?"

"Alas, I am only a simple microbiologist, not an engineer! Once he is awake, I can make him answer all your questions. And in another five or six hours, when his bloodstream is clear, I can attempt to awaken him. Until then?" He gave that very Russian gesture, a shrug that conveyed, 'Yes, the world is shit, but what can you do?' "Nothing."

"Thanks, doc. Can we move him at least? I'd like to have him in the interrogation room when you're ready to try waking him."

"Oh, certainly! I'll arrange it, yes?" He stood and left the room, leaving Pat and Grez behind.

"Damn! We really need to pick his brain!"

"Maybe not," said his wife. "We did get quite a collection from their safe house. Their security was a joke! We've already cracked every encryption they had set up."

"Find anything useful?"

"Not much. It's terribly disorganized! Would you believe they were using Word documents for data storage?"

"What have you found?"

"So far, we've pulled out references to Inarov and Ibrahim, and a timetable for the Groznyy operation. Apparently, once the bomb was in place, they were to wait four days longer."

"Why?"

"We don't know yet. That's probably in another document we haven't found yet."

"How long until you dig up something else?"

"Who knows? I have everyone I can spare working on ploughing through the data, though."

"Let me know if you want help. We could probably get OSOL to bring in more eyes?"

"No. We'll find it soon enough."

=============================

"You didn't get lost. That's a plus." Adams' acerbic comment startled Jachin, who had been concentrating on the road.

"All Father!" he swore, gripping the wheel tightly as his eyes flashed from Adams' still-recumbent form to the road.

"Steady on!"

Jachin recovered control of the slight swerve. "If not for your snores, I would think you dead!"

"Yeah, that's what the third - or was it the fourth? - wife said at the divorce. Where are we?"

Instead of replying directly, Jachin keyed the mike. "Dragon, Orkin Actual requests a position check."

"One five klicks west southwest of Prikumskij. Glad he's awake; the snoring was getting to be a tactical concern."

Jachin looked at Adams, shrugged as if to say, 'Told you so,' and answered, "Roger, out." He began to slow down.

"What are you doing?" demanded Adams.

"Pulling over so you can take over driving?" answered Jachin, suddenly unsure.

"Negative, Keldara. I just told you to wake me at Prikumskij, not that we'd be changing positions. No, you're in the hot seat the rest of the way."

"The seat isn't that warm -"

"Never mind. Point is, you're still driving. I'm coordinating, making sure none of our other sheep wander off." He keyed the mike for the tactical radio net to the other vehicles. "Orkin team, Dragon puts us at one five klicks from initial penetration of OA. Any issues we need to deal with?"

All the calls came back, "Negative."

"Very good. Upon arrival at OA, unload..." Jachin could imagine the groans from Adams' captive audience.

=============================

"Pierson."

"Four Blind Mice report negative, continuing surveillance."

Switching gears to another op, Pierson, muttering, answered, "Understood. Report completion of sweep."

=============================

Not surprisingly, the evolution went smoothly. The last few klicks, after parking, were tedious but not especially difficult, as the road leading past the lake was maintained year-round. Each Team, upon reaching their designated spot, simply faded into the trees, silently, and quickly began concealing themselves.

Vil and Oleg allowed their sub-leaders to coordinate their Teams' emplacement, as they met with Adams in a portable command center. The basic design was stolen from Delta; Vanner had worked his magic on it, and now it readily duplicated the capabilities of the main intel suite back in the caravanserai. Of course, on this mission, basically a smash-and-grab, they anticipated using very little tech support. The lone member of Vanner's staff occupied herself, setting up workstations to her liking.

"Their perimeter security is shit," opined Vil.

"We didn't see anyone," agreed Adams, "but you know how easy it would be to conceal all sorts of fancy electronics." He waved at the Intel spec.

"We scanned for that, for active and passive monitors. Nothing."

"Just eyeballs," added Oleg. "And yes, Chief. The men were careful not to be spotted. Shaynav's already got them scoped; he says there are three guards near the entrance, two below, one above."

"Watch for patterns." He checked the time. "We assault in ninety minutes."

=============================

"Why have we not heard from Kassab?"

Inarov was pacing up and down. It was nearly sundown. Since departing the previous morning, nothing had been heard from Boulos or his Groznyy-bound team. Ibrahim and Gereshk were out of contact as well, but that was planned. They both had further to travel, and the importance of maintaining radio silence had been repeatedly stressed by Ibrahim before his exodus. It was closing in on the deadline for Boulos and Kassab to report successful contact, however, and with Ibrahim absent, Inarov was taking counsel of his fears. "Handal!" he bellowed.

Mansur Handal, one of the remaining members of Inarov's inner circle, immediately appeared. "How may I serve Your Excellency?"

"Call Boulos. If he does not answer, call Kassab. Find them!"

Handal had followed Inarov for the best part of five years and was familiar with his moods and concerns. He could usually persuade him to keep to the planned path when the unexpected arose. "I would not dream of disobeying you, O Wise One, but did not Ibrahim insist we await their calls?"

"I am the Emir and you will obey!"

Sometimes discretion was the better part of survival. "At once, Emir." Striding to the side of the room, he picked up a past-generation Russian scrambled mobile phone that had been acquired in a raid. To the Chechen, it was advanced technology, with multiple selections and modes of communication available: fax, text, scrambled, clear channel. You had to know which one was appropriate for use. He didn't.

He assumed that the default setting would be a satellite link and therefore nearly untraceable. He dialed.

"No answer from Kassab," he said after a moment.

"Try Boulos, fool!"

"At once." Another moment: "No answer either."

"Allah be merciful, where are they?"

=============================

Kira Makanee was the only member of Vanner's staff to accompany the teams on this mission. She was tall for a Keldara woman, nearly six feet tall, and strongly built. Her Nordic heritage shone through in her blonde hair, blue eyes and high cheeks. She was another of the older Keldara, just past her twentieth birthday, and had settled into the intel job as naturally as other generations had taken to the axe. She was composed, intellectual, and able to concentrate through the chaos that surrounded her. When Vanner asked her one day how she thrived in Chaos Central, she laughed and replied, 'I am the oldest of thirteen children. This is nothing!'

She was attached to Team Vil, so when her intercept gear beeped for attention, she called Vil over to her side of the command center.

"What do you have?"

"They're attempting to contact Kassab. There's no answer." The success of the raid in Groznyy was well-known. "Now they're trying Boulos. No answer there either, of course."

"They must be getting nervous. We may have to kick off early. Good work, Kira."

=============================

The phones ringing was noticed by Stella, too.

"They're getting worried." She looked at the phones thoughtfully. "I wonder..."

"What?" asked Anisa.

"I wonder if we could spoof them?"

"How? None of us sound like Kassab, or Boulos, and even if we alter our voices we don't have the speech patterns or the information they'd have!"

"I have an idea..."

=============================

The secure phone sounded a tone. Inarov pounced on it.

"What does this mean?" he asked, holding the flashing phone out so Handal could see it.

"May I see?" he said, reaching for it. "Ah!" and he pressed some buttons. "It is Kassab, reporting in with a SMS message."

"A what?"

"He texted us, Excellency."

"Why did he not call? Why did he not answer?"

"One moment, Your Wisdom, allow me to read this." A few clicks, a few seconds, and he spoke again. "He said:

"Boulos has arrived, the package is secure. We have very bad conditions here and I was unable to answer the phone. I can only respond in this manner for now. Kassab."

"I should not have doubted our faithful servants, eh, Handal?"

"Yes, Excellency."

=============================

"Think they bought it?"

"Assuming that Kassab knew how to text? Maybe. But you want to know the best part?" Stella giggled.

"What?"

"The message we sent is all true. Well, except the signature."

=============================

"They don't seem to be moving yet."

Manos Shaynav was the sniper for Team Padrek. He was keeping the three sentries in constant view, one in the crude rock hut atop the ridge, the other two sharing cigarettes by the entry.

"Good," came back Padrek's reply on the radio. "Be prepared. No searching for tigers."

"Understood." He raised his weapon of choice, a Russian-made KSVK 12.7. A massive rifle, it had been designed for anti-material sniping - taking out people hiding behind walls, for example - but he loved it. His theoretical range was two kilometers, though his best shot to date was only about eleven hundred meters. At this range - little more than five hundred - his targets had no chance.

So far, nothing much had happened. A non-com, a sergeant-equivalent, had come out briefly, sending one of the two guards by the door scurrying off toward the woods. Seeing this, the guard above, huddled in his pathetic rock hut, stood and walked to the edge of the escarpment. Manos could see past him into the shelter as he gestured and yelled down to the maybe-sergeant. Probably complaining about being stuck up top, thought Manos.

Except for a rough blanket against the rocks to try to seal out the rushing wind, and a thermos sitting on the ground, the space was bare of any other equipment - no radio, no gun. The discussion, argument, was brief. Refused permission to move, the guard returned to the rocks. A few minutes after the non-com went back inside, the scurrier returned to the cliff face, and soon enough the two were reunited in the dubious shelter of the cave entrance. They were his first targets when the word came down, he decided. Without a radio, Hut-boy couldn't warn the encampment, and without a gun, he couldn't shoot back.

Grain to be threshed. If they lined up just right, he thought, maybe I can take them both out with one shot...

=============================

The intercom sounded. "Yes?"

"ETA?"

Hardesty sighed inwardly. "Fifty-seven minutes, with this tailwind." It was the third time in a half hour he had been asked that question, and he didn't need to be psychic to sense his passenger's impatience. "Sir, I have the engines redlined. Every temperature gauge I have says that we should have fallen apart an hour ago. And I've never seen any Gulfstream gulp fuel this quickly. I understand that it's important to get to your destination, but unless you wish to get out and push, or start throwing people out the cabin?" He paused a beat. "I didn't think so. Sir, we will get there as quickly as I can manage."

He heard, rather than saw, the answering, rueful grin. "I don't suppose you could just drop the luggage? Never mind, I'd have to jump out after it, if I didn't get pushed out. Okay, Captain, I'll stop bugging you." The connection broke.

"Thank Christ," he muttered.

"Another bloody impatient Yank?" inquired the co-pilot, Tulleigh O'Neal.

Hardesty thought before replying firmly, "You haven't flown Mr. Jenkins around with me, have you?"

"No, sir," came the now-nervous answer.

"He's not your typical Yank. Yes, he's impatient to get to his destination, but there are some things about Mr. Jenkins that, frankly, you don't need to know."

"Yes, sir."

"And, incidentally, I wasn't referring to his query about our ETA."

"Sir?"  
"With Mr. Jenkins, I worried too late that he might take me seriously and start dumping people overboard."

"Oh."

=============================

The guards were looking anxiously around in the dim light of a lantern. Neither owned a watch, so trusted their replacements to be on time. Several times this had burned them, the next shift taking their time and delaying ten or even fifteen minutes. Today, they thought it was after eight, and so were stamping their feet, trying to blot out the fact they'd left Qays up top the entire shift. Haytham said, "I'll head out to the other post."

=============================

Manos had seen the increasing agitation and reported in. Seconds later, he had a reply. "Take them down."

=============================

Qays heard a muted, if fierce, crack. Peering into the darkness revealed nothing, so he achingly emerged from the shelter and went around the back, overlooking the lake. Fortunately, the wind had died down.

=============================

The round from Manos' KSVK was made of Staballoy, an alloy of nickel, zinc, and, mostly, depleted uranium. Strictly speaking, it was an 'Armor Piercing Fin Stabilized Discarding Sabot"; Manos called them 'Ull's Arrows" after the Norse hunting god. A tiny firm in Macedonia, specializing in unique ammunition, kept him supplied. The cost? He didn't know exactly, but it had to be appalling. The one time he had wasted a round on a known distance range target - as opposed to an animal, or a combat simulator - Lasko had made him clean every rifle in the armory for a week. As a result, he tried very hard not to miss.

He didn't miss this time.

The round penetrated Haytham's neck just above the C5 vertebra, virtually decapitating him. Bursting from the clavicle, the round wasn't appreciably slowed as it plowed into the shorter Kateb's left eyebrow, followed by a spray of blood and pulverized bone. Of course, by then Kateb's skull had been nearly exploded by the passing round, which continued for a bare millisecond before impacting the granite behind the men, driving nearly a foot into the recalcitrant stone before finally shattering and stopping. The sparks the pyrophoric - 'fire-making' - uranium erupted into were briefly smothered by the splashes of Haytham and Kateb, but soon flared up again. Blood and body parts contained water, and that reacted as readily with the now-burning uranium as air.

The smell of roast pork began to fill the air.

=============================

Qays couldn't see anything from this side, either. But with the wind finally died down, and the stars out, it was peaceful on this side, so he sat down to wait.

An odd whistling noise didn't disturb him.

=============================

Lasko's going to kill me! thought Manos as he frantically loaded another round. The target had sat so quickly, so unexpectedly, that the round that should have sent him to visit Allah sped past, unobserved. Good thing he's on the other mission! Speaking into the voice-activated mike, Manos reported in. "Two at entrance down. One on rock unable to target, waiting."

The round eventually impacted on the far shore.

=============================

"Go!" The order came from Adams. Silently, NVGs down, Padrek's team advanced on the now-abandoned entrance. From the north and south Teams Yosif and Sawn also advanced, tasked with sealing any potential escapes. One of Yosif's men, Edvin, sprinted up the path to take care of the lone guard remaining. Breathing rapidly but quietly, he slowed to approach the rock pile. M-4 held at ready, he paused, then jumped around to face the guard who -

- was asleep. Backing up a step, Edvin kept the gun leveled at the tango's head. Still no reaction - was the son-of-a-goat - snoring??

"Ah, Yosif Nine to Yosif Actual," he subvocalized, the sensitive throat mike picking up the faint sounds.

"Go, Nine."

"Target is, well, sleeping."

He heard Yosif's snort. "Repeat, Nine?"

He drew a deep breath. "Target is sleeping, Yosif."

"Wrong time to joke, Edvin."

"I'm not kidding!" he nearly snapped. "He. Is. Asleep."

He could definitely hear laughter. "Then wake him up and bring him in. Allah must be favoring him today."

"Nine, out." He strode closer and poked him with a foot. "You, wake up!" he said in passable Arabic.

"Hunh? Oh, goat fuck me, I fell asleep on watch!" The clueless man - no, kid, he couldn't be more than fifteen, didn't even need to shave yet as far as Edvin could tell through the NVGs - stretched and rubbed his eyes. Looking at Edvin, and the appropriately lethal-looking M-4, he froze.

"You're not -"

"No. Up. Now."

The youth sprang to his feet like someone had set a firecracker under his ass.

"Down the hill. Move." The kid hesitated. "I said, move!"

"Can I get my tea?"

"Your tea?"

"In the guard shack. It's not my bottle, you see, and if I don't bring it back -"

"You have bigger problems than a lost tea bottle. Move."

=============================

Bori Mahona was first to the entrance. Inspecting it closely, he was shocked at its primitive condition - it wasn't even a proper door! It seemed to be little more than a heavy piece of wood which had been roughly shaped to the entrance and propped against the hole. He could see light leaking around imperfections in the fit, but one thing he couldn't see was a handle. Tentatively, he pushed against it. Nothing. He pushed harder. Still nothing.

The team was piling up behind him now. He leaned against it with all his weight. Nothing.

"Did you try pulling it?" rasped Padrek.

"There's no handle to pull!"

"Tch, tch," answered Padrek in his favorite MacKenzieism. "Vasya, I think a few meters of det cord are in order here. Justinas, get a camera through that door. We need to know if anyone's coming."

"So we can wait until they open it for us?" quipped Justinas as he came forward and pulled a compact camera/monitor assembly from his pack.

"No, so we can blow the bloody door down on their fool heads!" grinned back Padrek. He did love his explosives.

=============================

The camera revealed a rough, heavy-looking metal bar across the door. Bori did his best, but his fingers couldn't quite push the det cord through the narrow gap to make solid contact with the shaft. Thinking quickly, he pulled out the multi-purpose tool each Tiger carried - essentially, a Leatherman folding tool by another name, with a few specialized additions. Opening a flat probe blade, he tamped the cord down.

"A little faster, please," said Padrek patiently.

Bori flushed; while all Padrek's team had received extensive training in explosives and other mechanical devices of destruction, he was better with the hardware, instead of the things just went boom. This was little out of his comfort zone, but 'Adapt, Improvise and Overcome! (Or blow it up.)'

"Ready." Justinas hastily removed the camera, and the Team backed around the stone corner. "Fire in the hole!" There was a flash and a muffled 'whump', then a deafening 'CLAAAANNNNG!' as the iron bar dropped to the rock floor.

"That does for surprise, boyos!" yelled Padrek, leaning against the door. Now, it toppled easily into the cavern, dimly illuminated by three old-fashioned lanterns hanging from the wall. Echoes of the falling door resonated through the cavern.

"Genrich, left, Steppas, right. Anton, take out the lanterns. Arminis, I want you and your SAW ready to suppress any fire." Arminis Ferani was Padrek's third, carrying an M249, followed closely by Efim Shaynav, his ammo bearer, trailed the point as Anton started snuffing the lanterns. As the light dimmed, the team went back to the NVGs.

"Clear left."

"Clear right, two rooms, both vacant." Further down the hall, a dim light indicated a curve in the tunnel. The walls here were almost totally raw rock, worn smooth by passage of untold numbers of people over the centuries.

"Look sharpish, lads," said Padrek. "I can hear 'em coming." Sure enough, voices floated to their ears, perhaps concerned but not unduly alarmed. "Some prisoners would be helpful, though not entirely necessary," he added. Looking at the close quarters, he finished, "Though not bloody likely."

It was about to get very loud, and very messy.

=============================

They came in hotter than usual, barely slow enough to stay on the ground, and Hardesty had his hands full bringing his bird to a controlled stop on the short runway. Stop they did, though, and were quickly off the tarmac and rolling along the taxiway.

"I think our ride's here," said Mike, peering out a forward window. Sure enough, in the middle distance squatted the unmistakable silhouette of the Valkyrie, navigation lights flashing, rotors turning slowly. As if in response to his words, the plane veered slightly to pass close to the waiting Hind. It was only a matter of seconds until they were nearly alongside.

"Transfer to Kildar Air here," joked Hardesty on the intercom. "Miss Rakovich, I understand you'll be staying aboard for the flight to Tbilisi?"

"Yes, I shall."

"Very good."

"Right," said Mike as the plane completely stopped. "Kat, you sure I can't talk you into staying with Stasia? I don't really want to leave her alone for a flight."

"Almost, you convince me," said Kat, "but my place is with you."

"I tried," he sighed, and undogged the hatch. To his surprise, waiting on the tarmac was Chief D'Allaird and Valkyrie's crew chief, Naida Shaynav.

"Evening, Kildar. Captain Wilson's set to fly you to the LZ. Your gear is aboard."

"Good work, Chief." Mike practically jumped down the short set of stairs and was surprised to see Naida climb up. "Naida? Aren't you on the wrong bird?"

"No, Kildar. My orders are to return with Miss Rakovich. Chief D'Allaird will be filling in for me on this part of the mission."

Mike could feel Nielson's subtle hand at work here. "Good thinking," was all he said, though. "Chief," he addressed D'Allaird, seeing Katrina and Major Hughes on the ground. "Looks like we're ready."

"Follow me." D'Allaird trotted off. Behind, the G550s engines spooled up, the stairs were pulled in, and the hatch closed. Probably Naida herself. Tammy trained her people well. Hardesty was clearing the area for the Hind's liftoff.

"I'm afraid it's a little cramped," he said over his shoulder. "The Colonel suggested that we fill out our lift capacity with a few extras." As they approached the Hind, Mike saw what he meant.

Through the windows, which would normally show the crew compartment, all he could see were piles of boxes, crates, and ammo cartons. "Just what did the Colonel suggest you bring?" he asked, climbing aboard.

"Oh, this and that. Actually, I think it's mostly Semtex," he admitted sheepishly.

"Semtex?" said Hughes, surprised. While Semtex was a very stable explosive, he obviously was unused to being flown in a compartment stuffed ceiling to floor with the compound. Mike and Katrina simply sat down and started fastening their harnesses so, after a moment, Hughes did as well.

"Don't worry," assured Mike, "Valkyrie's not the crazy pilot. Well," he amended, "not as crazy."

"Oh, shit," said Hughes, as Tammy said, "I heard that, Kildar."

Whereupon Mike echoed, "Oh, shit."
CHAPTER 38

Kek-Usn

April 12

They were making good progress.

No alarm had been given that they could detect. Kira was monitoring the radios and other electronic devices and had reported no unusual traffic in either direction. They were either completely unaware that eighty heavily armed men had invaded their supposedly hidden stronghold, or were far, far more subtle in planning their ambushes than anyone could believe.

Padrek's team had taken the branch to the right; Oleg and his team had taken the left. Teams Sawn and Yosif had followed Padrek and Oleg, respectively, into the caverns, leaving Vil and the command team to hold the exterior. Of course, with Dragon hovering a thousand feet overhead, ready unleash hell at the slightest command, and Valkyrie due to arrive any minute, the perimeter was probably the most secure location on the whole lake.

They had accounted for seven tangoes so far, all KIA. Their unfortunate prisoner, whose name was Qays, was spilling his guts to the Master Chief. He didn't know all the details, all the side passages, but he knew all the major tunnels and chambers of the underground stronghold, he knew the habits and movement patterns of his fellow jihadists, he knew where Inarov kept his quarters and, most vitally, he knew where the nukes were being worked on.

Every few minutes, a new map of the layout would be downloaded to their BFTs with a subtle beep. It seemed that they were headed down the residential end; the sleeping quarters and Inarov's office/suite were about all that were shown, so, after a hasty conference, Padrek's team moved ahead, while Oleg's team went to join up with the others.

Padrek had personally sealed the entrance to the barracks with enough Semtex to, as he put it, "Drop the caravanserai." They didn't have a count, but according to Qays, the majority of the remaining mujahideen would be racked out. A quick look through NVGs seemed to confirm that so, in short order, several tons of rock were blasted into place in the short corridor leading to the bunks. Those men might know that they had been attacked, but Padrek was willing to wager a year's beer they wouldn't be doing anything about it any time soon.

According to the schematic, they ought to be getting close to Inarov's quarters -

His musing was interrupted by a sudden crack-crack-crack. Someone had just opened up at them with an old AK, and his team flattened against the walls and floor, returning fire.

"Filthy sneaking bastards!" came the cry at them. Using the camera system from the door, he looked around the corner. There were five heavy-set Chechens behind a hastily erected defensive point. Behind them was a solid, even regal-looking door. He checked the BFT. That would be Inarov's quarters.

"Keep them pinned down!" he called. They couldn't risk an explosives assault in these close quarters; fragments, whether of metal or stone, didn't distinguish between friend and foe. They'd bounce around until they exhausted their energy. He also couldn't risk bringing the roof down and trapping Inarov; they were supposed to capture him, not rescue him from an artificial cave-in. Grenades, therefore, were right out, as were his favorite satchel charges. It was too tight for a direct assault, too; his men would be cut down before they covered the twenty meters or so. The Keldara were warriors, true, but the Kildar had taught them to appreciate their own value and to spend themselves wisely.

A slow grin spread across his face.

He and Vanner had wanted to try out the new toy for a while now. This seemed perfect. He sat back and called back to Justinas, "Bring up my special pack, that's a good lad."

=============================

Changing in a Hind was challenging at best. This was far from best. Especially since it seemed that every time Mike was precariously balanced, the helicopter would suddenly shift. Tammy's revenge.

Hughes had kept his back to Katrina as much as possible, but that left him with no room to move his legs or arms, so eventually he HAD to turn. Mike was pretty sure that Kat'd left her top off longer just to give Hughes that quick flash; he really needed to have a talk with her about that. Later.

First things first: survive. He felt his long-ago SEAL training wrap around his mind in a familiar, comfortable way, clearing his thoughts, focusing him on the mission. His heart rate steadied, slowed.

D'Allaird didn't bother trying not to look; he was too busy trying not to grin. He sat on his perch, steady as a rock, doing his damndest to imitate every Chief of the Boat Mike had ever known. If he'd been sipping coffee in a hurricane, he couldn't have done a better impression.

Asshole.

Eventually they were all in their body armor. Just in time, too, as the dense Russian forest suddenly became a lake. "One minute!" shouted D'Allaird. Mike nodded, holding up a single finger to show he understood. And using the middle finger, just to make sure the message was totally clear.

They came in low over a rocky hill that dropped abruptly away. With a sudden flare, Valkyrie dropped as well, settling into a clearing. With a speed that still surprised Mike, D'Allaird leapt up to release the passenger door, then the cargo hatch on the opposite side. M-4 loaded but on safe, Mike quickly jumped out, followed by Hughes, then Katrina. He was scanning the perimeter of the surrounding trees when he noticed Vil dogtrotting up.

"How goes it?" he shouted as they cleared the prop wash.

"Very smoothly so far," answered Vil. "Master Chief Adams has a report for you in the command center."

"After you!"

The tent was just as calm as the scene outside. "All this training and the fuckers are just rolling over," groused Adams as Mike walked in.

"You'd prefer a better fight?"

"I'd prefer a fight, period! So far, the only organized resistance is coming from Inarov's bodyguards. They're holding back Padrek and his team, but he's got something sneaky up his sleeve."

"I thought we were expecting some hundreds? Where the hell are they?"

"At this point, probably just about out of air."

"Huh?"

"You always were the one for intelligent questions, Ass-Boy. Seems that our boy Padrek caught them asleep - literally. He did what he does best - demo." Adams smiled evilly. "He took one look in before he dropped the roof. Our count here makes it out around two hundred fifty of the stupid shits, caught napping."

'"Not exactly sporting," said Mike. Adams groaned.

"That's exactly what Padrek said. I'll tell you, with all due respect, what I told him: the point is to make them dead, not be 'sporting'"

"What's that?" asked Mike, gesturing to a prisoner rigger-taped to a chair in a corner.

"That's Qays. Luckiest SOB in the whole outfit, you ask me. Would you believe that he was asleep on top of that rock pile?"

"He give you anything good?"

"Solid gold, Mike. Everything's checked out so far."

"You mean we might have to let him live?" Katrina had entered the tent unnoticed, leaving Hughes outside.

"Damn, you're a bloodthirsty bitch!" exclaimed Adams.

"Why, thank you, Master Chief, you know me so well!" she replied, dimpling.

"Yeah, we might have to let him live. I think he's having second thoughts about the wisdom of the Emir."

Just then Kira spoke. "Go ahead, Padrek." A pause. "Understood. Priority is removing prisoner from combat." She turned to face the group. "Padrek's captured Inarov alive. He's bringing him out."

Mike strode toward the exit. "I'll meet him. I want to talk to this prick."

"No sledgehammers, Mike! We didn't bring any!" yelled Adams.

"I'll think of something! 'Overcome, Improvise and Adapt!' Remember?"

=============================

Inarov was in sorry shape. Usually meticulous about his appearance, he was dressed in torn, dirty Russian utilities. His beard seemed straggly, ragged. His lank hair was in disarray. He was covered in grime, and there seemed to be a shiner developing below his right eye.

Mike met him just outside the entrance. "Giku Inarov. Would-be Emir of the so-called Caucasian Emirate, and a royal pain in my ass." Mike looked him up and down with disgust. "Planning on sneaking away, your Emirateness?" he asked contemptuously. "While your loyal bodyguard nobly sacrificed themselves for you? How did you take them out?" he asked Padrek, who had followed Inarov.

"Oh, just a wee toy Vanner and I have been playing with. Nothing much, really."

"What was it?"

"Well, you know those new spy bots the United States is developing? The ones that mimic birds, and insects?"

Mike shook his head. "Not really, no. Thought that was all sort of science fiction."

"Oh, no, they're pretty well advanced. Vanner's been keeping abreast of these things. Truly fascinating! Did you know -"

"Get to the point, Padrek!"

"Yes, Kildar. Vanner arranged to acquire a number for testing purposes, he called them 'beta tests.' Then he gave some to me."

"You used, what, electronic insects? How?"

"Well, the smallest is the size of a bee, so that gave me an idea. I went to Dr. Arensky, and he provided me with a very potent toxin. Mouse did the actual programming, before she left, to seek out bare skin and implant the toxin."

"So, you stung them. With robot bees." Mike couldn't believe this.

"Essentially, yes, Kildar."

"Fatally?"  
"Oh, assuredly!"

"Creative. Different. Don't know how practical it is for front-line use, but still..."

Inarov, who had been standing quietly, suddenly roared, "Allah's curse upon your cowardly hide!" Waving his arms about, he continued, "A true warrior doesn't hide behind godless mechanical toys! He faces his enemy as a man and wins or loses by his own strength of arms! You make me -"

A flat crack echoed through the clearing and a chunk rocketed from Inarov's upper left arm.

"I think he was quite clever," came a woman's voice. "If you'd like to disagree some more, I can use more practice. You're my first live target." Katrina lowered her M4 to point at the ground.

Mike grabbed him just above the wound and made Inarov face him. "You heard the lady. More practice? Or you going to cooperate? I promise, if you cooperate, I won't kill you."

"I do not cooperate with infidels!"

"Way wrong answer!" Mike spun him away, grabbing the injured arm and holding it out.

A flat crack-crack-crack rang out. Inarov's left elbow seemed to explode. The lower arm and hand, neatly severed, dropped to the ground. "Tourniquet!" shouted Mike. After one was roughly applied, Mike took hold of the upper arm again.

"That's one hand. Hope you're right-handed. My promise still stands. You cooperate, and I won't kill you. Refuse, and I let my fiancée - nice shooting by the way Kat! - use you for more target practice. Wonder what's next on her list? So do I. Shall we find out?"

"NO!" gasped Inarov. "I'll cooperate, just get that bitch away from me!"

"Ah-ah-ah, even though it's true, that's no way to talk about the woman I'm going to marry. No, I think that she's earned her right to stay with us." Gesturing, Mike had a bandage applied to the first wound. Probably too quickly for Inarov's liking, they were ready.

"Now then, Giku - may I call you Giku? Yes? - we're going to take a walk. You're going to give me a tour of your lovely little hidey-hole, and you will tell everyone we encounter to surrender. If they don't, if you try to get tricky, well, they might get lucky. They might kill me, or her, or another one of my troops." His voice dropped to a hiss. "But I guarantee you will die, and then every last one of your surviving men will die. Then we'll drop the rock on their bodies, and that will be the end of your little Emirate, a pathetic attempt at glory, gone forever. You got me?"

Inarov nodded. Somewhere, probably when the tourniquet was applied, someone must have slipped him some anti-shock meds, as he seemed to be having a hard time tracking. That would just make him more reasonable. It was nice working with professionals.

"Good," said Mike more normally. "Let's walk."

=============================

Inarov was good as his word. He, Mike, Kat, and Padrek's team toured the underground facility, although Mike did sorely miss Shota at times like this. There were times that a man-mountain, with an augmented IQ over 180, was a most useful tool to have. For one thing, he could simply have carried Inarov around by the neck. But he wasn't available for this mission, and that was that. Still. After having a 5.56 mm amputation, there wasn't much fight left in Inarov.

` After passing several common areas - a rough-hewn mosque, a kitchen and dining hall, and a very haphazard armory - they approached a room whose entrance, unlike the others, was concealed behind a curtain of grayish plastic strips. Gesturing for the others to wait, Mike ghosted forward. He was only a meter from the entrance when Pavel whispered, "Kildar, wait."

"What is it, Pavel?"

Padrek's man pointed with the Geiger counter he was carrying. "That room reads hot."

Taking an involuntary step back, Mike asked, "How hot?"

"About twenty rem. Nothing that will harm us quickly, but I wouldn't want to be in there for too long."

Mike faced Inarov. "Is anyone in there?"

"Yes. That is where we are trying to rearm the weapons."

"Are all of the weapons in there?"

"I will not tell you."

The sound of Katrina's M4 being switched off 'safe' was very loud in the silence.

"Again. Are all of the weapons in that room?"

A very brief pause, and "Yes. All we have."

"Kildar!"

"Padrek?"

"If any of those weapons have their shielding off - they're running a risk of an uncontrolled reaction. Especially if the cores are exposed and too close to each other."

"Uncontrolled - oh, shit. Explosion?"

"Big one."

"Right." Keying the radio, Mike got Adams. "Chief, I need every man not on perimeter guard in here, now. This idiot's got all the weapons in one room. According to Padrek, we could have an explosion."

"Understood. On their way. Out."

"Moving them may be difficult," offered Inarov.

"Why is that?" demanded Mike. He wasn't in any mood for more bullshit right now.

"The technicians, they're still in there, working on the tritium process."

"They haven't stopped?"

"No, why should they have? They're not my fedayeen, only technicians that Ibrahim brought in." He shrugged. "They are here to work."

"'Brought in'?" asked Mike scornfully. "You mean kidnapped, don't you?"

"Like you, they are infidels. Only those who watch them are of the Faithful. Why should I care?"

Mike was instantly furious. "Because you took them from their homes and their families to work on goddamn nuclear weapons that could kill them all! I've run into plenty of your kind in the past, people who believe that 'different' means 'wrong,' but you take the prize." Turning to Padrek, he said, "Let's see how enjoys radiation. Do you think you could strip the shielding off one of these nukes?"

"I - maybe, Kildar. With this much radiation in the room, I would think that there are several that already have their shielding removed. Tritium wouldn't create that much radiation."

"Fine," snarled Mike. "As soon as we're done with this prick, I want you to find a nice, dirty, contaminated bomb and rigger tape his sorry ass to the casing. Put his nuts as close to the source as you can manage; even if he lives, I don't want him spawning another little jihadist." Returning to Inarov, he said, "Get your guards out of there. I'll deal with the techs."

There were only two guards, who, upon hearing Inarov's voice, quickly exited the room and were subdued. Mike pulled aside the heavy plastic, but before he could speak Anton barked, "Kildar! Back off!"

He dropped the curtain back, bringing his weapon up. "What?"

"The radiation - it spiked to a hundred rem!" Mike paled.

"What'll that do to us?"

"I'm not sure, but it can't be good."

Padrek spoke. "After a few hours, mild radiation sickness. Vomiting. Diarrhea. Fatigue. Not too much more, but we ought to get those techs out now. M It may already be too late, but we must try!"

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Mike yelled, in Russian, "Attention workers! I am the Kildar, and I need you to stop what you are doing right now and exit the room!" Nothing, so after a few seconds he added, "You have nothing to fear! We are here to rescue you! But you need to come out now!"

A voice, muffled, replied, "Why should we trust you, 'Kildar'? Is this another of our jailers' tricks?"

Mike pushed Inarov forward and through the curtain, holding his shirt firmly. "Is this your jailer? Does he look threatening now?" And he pulled Inarov out.

A moment passed, and a bespectacled, balding man stepped out. "You are here to rescue us?"

"All of you and take those weapons away. But I need you to come out from there."

The man nodded. "Immediately. God may yet spare us." He made a feeble kick at Inarov but failed to connect.

Very shortly a dozen men were gathered in the now-crowded hallway. They were mostly young, with two or three older scattered in with them. "Anton will lead you outside and help get you checked out." In Keldara, he said, "Get a reading on them, get them cleaned up as best you can. See if you can find different clothes; I'm sure these are spoiled." There wasn't a Keldaran term for 'contaminated', so he did his best. "Then radio Dr. Arensky, see if there's anything we can do for them here. I remember some things from my training - after they're as externally clean as possible, start giving them liquids - water - beer!"

The shocked looks on their faces were priceless.

"Beer, Kildar? Our beer?"

"Yes, your beer. It'll help flush the radioactives out of their system. So. Clean, then beer. Got it?"

"Yes, Kildar."

In Russian, Anton said, "Please, follow."

"Padrek, I want two guards here. Two meters away from that doorway. Nobody goes in without my say-so."

Over the radio: "Chief. How many NBC suits did we bring?"

"Radiation suits? Two, I think."

"Fuck. Okay, those are going to be two very sweaty suits. Figure out who they fit; nobody else is to retrieve the weapons. According to Padrek, some of the bombs have had their shielding removed, and the whole room reads as contaminated." Another thought hit him. "We've got to get the shields back on. Who do we have who could do that?"

Hughes spoke up. "I've gotten training. I was on a NEST team for a couple years."

Looking him up and down, Mike said, "I don't think I have a rad suit that will fit you." Hughes was taller, but thinner, than the average Keldara.

He shrugged. "If they can get the weapon out, I can check the shielding out here. It's not tough to put it on quickly, if you don't care about neatness."

"What about radiation?"

"Well, I can't say I'm looking forward to it, but it shouldn't be an issue, not for brief exposures. The body armor will help but I'll want to get rid of it afterward. Gotta have gloves, though."

"Body armor's cheap, comparatively. Right, you've got yourself a job." Prodding Inarov, he said, "Move on. What's left?"

"All that remains down here is my office, and Ibrahim's quarters."

"His quarters first." Inarov walked another twenty meters or so and stopped. This door wasn't sloppy. It fit flush to the opening, which had obviously been carefully shaped. Inarov tried the knob.

"Locked," he said, stepping away.

"Open it. You're Emir; don't tell me you don't have a fucking key."

"I do, but I have never violated Ibrahim's trust!"

Mike laughed harshly. "Trust? Let me tell you something about your precious Ibrahim: his real name is Kurt Schwenke, and he is as much a Muslim as I'm a fish. He's deceived you every step of the way, from his name to his history to the real reason for this whole scheme. This raid and the whole nuclear blackmail plot, that was his idea, wasn't it?" Inarov didn't say anything, or even move, but he had gone more and more pale with each sentence. "Thought so. He's played you for a fool, used your ambition and your faith so that he could get revenge on one person."

Inarov fumbled with his hand for a set of keys. "I do not believe you! Ibrahim al-Jasir is the most loyal son of Allah I have ever known! I shall show you!" He turned the key in the lock.

Almost before he knew what he was doing, Mike turned and hurled himself at Katrina, knocking her flat and shielding her with his body as the door exploded. Inarov's body was shredded by the flying metal. Two Keldara were down, too, thrown against the opposite wall by the force of the blast.

"Damn, damn, damn -" Mike cursed. His ears rang.

"Michael? What happened?" Kat, for the first time, sounded shaken.

"I forgot that we're dealing with Kurt Schwenke. No, strike that. I forgot that we're dealing with a cold, unfeeling killer, who takes every possible precaution. Of course, he'd set a trap on his quarters!" He stood, then pulled Katrina up after him. "Chief?"

"Mike! What the hell?!"

"Schwenke booby-trapped his door."

"Anyone hurt?"

"Two Keldara, don't know how badly." As he spoke, one of the injured troops stood, wobbly. "One's up. And the Emir's got his martyrdom, though not quite how he planned it, I think."

"Damn."

"Yeah. Would've been nice to have another gift for the President." He looked at the wall. "We could take a picture. Wonder if he likes Impressionist art?" He could almost hear Adams wince. "Yeah, think I'll get a couple shots."

"Idiot. What next?"

"Next? Cleanup and Evac. Get it rolling." He switched off. "Padrek? Inarov said his office was down here. I'd assume that's where his files will be. Get them, any computers, anything else you think would be useful."

"Right-o, Kildar."

"Then start rigging this place to drop."

"Yes, Kildar!" Oh, were the Mules going to be jealous!

=============================

A large contingent of Keldara were standing outside the 'bomb room', as Mike thought of it. "How's it going," he asked Hughes.

"I've got your men hauling out the unshielded ones first, reduce the risks. Three done so far. The techs that Inarov was using? He at least provided them with lead aprons, so I'm just taking them and rigger-taping them to the open casings. Quick and dirty, but it'll work for the short term. How far do they need to go, anyway?"

"Chopper to Elista, then we're flying them Novorossijisk. We turn 'em over there."

"To whom?"

"Officially, the Navy, but I suspect that the CIA has a hand in it. In any case, they'll hold on to 'em."

"So about how far do they need to go?"

"About a hundred thirty kilometers in the choppers, then another five hundred on the planes."

"I'll want to do something a little more permanent, then, when we get to Elista."

"No problem."

"Do the Russians know you're flying nuclear weapons across their territory?"

Mike's smile was cold. "Nope. I figure I'll tell them after they've sailed off into the sunset. Hopefully, I'll get to see Vlad's face when I tell him."

"Does that have to do with - no, that's above my pay grade." He was saved from further comment by movement behind him. All the Keldara backed away, giving the two men in olive drab full-body suits plenty of room. The weapon was on a wheeled table - a gurney, Mike realized - and seemed to move easily despite the weight. "Back to work. You want to stand off a ways." Mike and Kat moved before he finished his sentence.

"One last question. Do you have a count?"

"Yeah. Twenty-two."

Something about that bugged Mike, but he knew better than to jostle Hughes just now.

On the way out, it hit him. "Twenty-two? There should be twenty-three!" Breaking into a run, he exited the cavern, yelling for Adams.

"What?"

"How many nukes were we looking to recover? Total. What did Pierson say?"

"Twenty-five."

"There's only twenty-two here."

It only took a second for Adams to do the math. "Shit."

"Right. One in Groznyy, one with Schwenke's missing force - and we're still short one."

"You think he miscounted?"

"Who? Pierson? Hughes?"

"Either. Both. Christ, the Russians could've gotten the numbers wrong."

Mike shook his head. "No, I don't think so. They might lose warheads they haven't accounted for, but ones they're shipping out? We pay them, you know, for each nuke. They want their dollars, so their manifest is gonna match exactly. And Hughes wouldn't miscount."

"That means one's gone off somewhere."

Mike winced. "Please don't say 'gone off.'"

"Sorry. How about 'wandered away'? It doesn't matter what I say, it ain't here."

"Goddamn motherfucking prick's outsmarted us!"

"Who, Inarov?"

"No, Schwenke! Okay. How many of Inarov's men did we end up pulling out of there alive?"

"Eighteen. That includes Qays."

"The odds suck, but I want you to talk to each one of them. See if any were privy to any policymaking, any planning. Maybe one will geek as to the location of the last bomb."

"Will do."

"Givi!" Mike called, spotting one of Oleg's team. "Over here!"

"Yes, Kildar!" The young man trotted over.

"I want you to count the bombs as they come out. Exactly. Write it down if you must. Got that?"

Confused, but willing, Givi said, "Yes, Kildar!" and ran off.

"Michael? What is problem?"

He'd totally forgotten about Katrina. He turned to look; she had her M4 at the ready, guarding his back. Briefly, he explained.

"So we are missing a bomb? So what?"

"Kat?"

"If they have another bomb somewhere in Russia, what problem is it of ours? Think, Michael."

"How about you explain it?"

"I see three choices. One, they are found by Russians. Problem solved."

"Okay. Two?"

"Two, they are not found by Russians, but cannot detonate bomb. Eventually, they go away, or try to sell bomb, or do something else stupid. Again, problem solved."

"Maybe. And three?"

"Three, they detonate bomb and kill many Russians. So? I do not hate Russians, but this is not our problem. We are asked to find this base, capture the bombs here. This we do. Can we help if bomb is moved before we arrive? Can we stop it moving in Russia? We are Keldara, but we are only small."

"God, you're a bloodthirsty bitch. That's not a bad thing," he added hastily, raising his hands. "But in this case, well, there's a phrase: 'The enemy of my enemy is my friend.'"

"Ah, I have heard this. We have a similar phrase: 'The enemy of my enemy is my enemy's enemy. No more.' Michael, we cannot depend on the Russians to protect us, or the Georgians, or even the Americans. We must protect ourselves. That is what the Keldara have learned, have lived. Capturing these bombs makes us safer, yes? This is good. But does not allowing Russians to die make us safer? I do not know. I do not think so."

"I disagree. I also promised Pierson that we would retrieve all the bombs."

"Ah, then it is a matter of our honor. This, I understand."

"Good. Besides. If it was easy, they wouldn't have asked us."

=============================

Originally, the plan called for both Dragon and Valkyrie to ferry nukes to Elista. That was before they learned of the potential for Russian ambush, and since they couldn't know if it was limited to ground forces or if they had brought air support along, it was decided that Valkyrie would carry the nukes while the Dragon flew in support. It would take twice as long, but all agreed that security trumped speed in this case.

Adams' interrogations started badly.

"Suck on a goat cock, infidel!" spat the first, a heavy-set, middle-aged man with a typically greasy beard and a lazy eye.

"How about you suck on this?" asked Adams, placing the barrel of his Desert Eagle in his questionees mouth. "Or would you rather answer the question?"

"I would die before telling you anything!"

"Your choice," said Adams with a shrug, and pulled the trigger. The back of his skull, and what few brains he had, spattered the line of prisoners standing behind. Adams stepped past the new-made corpse, and had the next selection brought forward. "Feeling reasonable? Or do I get to waste a round on you, too?"

He didn't have to waste any more rounds. Unfortunately, though they were now falling over themselves in their eagerness to cooperate, not even one knew any details of the plan. It was common knowledge that three groups had set out, but none knew the destinations. Finally getting to Qays, who was almost pathetically eager to please, he asked, almost out of habit, "I don't suppose you know anything?"

"I know who was leading the missions!"

"How?"

"I was on a double shift on guard duty that day, I saw them all leave!"

"Boy, I'm starting to like you. Who were they?"

"The last one to leave was Ibrahim. It was magnificent, watching all - "

"Yeah, yeah, a fuckin' parade. Who else?"

"Boulos Rahal left before him, much earlier. Before dawn."

"Yeah, we know Boulos. Knew."

"And first was Bursuk Gereshk."

Adams actually smiled. "That name I know. Very good, Qays. There might be hope for you yet!" Turning back to Kira, he said, "Get that information back as quick as you can."

"Understood, Chief."

Stripped out, they figured that Valkyrie would be able to carry a sufficient fuel load and, at most, four of the weapons. The overpowered engines could lift more, yes, but they simply couldn't pack them any more tightly in the crew compartment. At that, Naida was riding in the copilot's seat.

"Do not touch anything," warned Tammy.

"No, Ma'am!"

The two wounded Keldara, along with four more for the heavy lifting, flew in the Dragon.

"Hey, Anechka!" said Ionis, who was one of the four. "Going to take us for a ride?"

"If you want to survive the trip, you'll strap in," warned Anechka on the intercom. "If Captain Bathlick encounters any trouble, you're in for the ride of your life. Just saying."

"Remember the tales the Rangers told of the Chechens in the pass?" asked Eamon, tightening the straps and tugging on them to make sure they were secure.

"I - oh." Ionis settled down and began fastening his. "I get your point," he said as the engines started revving up.

=============================

"Anisa, we have a name. I need all the data you can find on him."

"Who, Grez?" Her fingers were poised over the keys.

"Bursuk Gereshk."

"Got him. We've done a preliminary report on him a couple days ago, remember? Do you want that, or do you need more depth?"

"Everything. According to the one source the Chief has found, he's got a nuke and is unaccounted for. Guess who has to try to figure out where he's gone?"

"On it. It might take some time. The Russian security is awful, but so is their organization. It's not easy finding anything in that mess."

"Do your best. Once you're in, get Kseniya to help you."

"Right."

=============================

Round trip, including unloading, seemed to be working out to about seventy minutes.

"We ought to be out of here before dawn," commented Adams, pleased. "If we can avoid any problems with the Russians, we might be home by sundown."

"I want you to take it easy on the way back. No point in rushing and arriving tired and groggy. If we're needed, we need to think clearly and see straight."

"We're SEALs -"

"Former SEALs, Master Chief. Very former, in my case."

"Yeah, but you're not driving back, are you?"

"As a matter of fact -"

"Didn't think so. We'll get there when we get there. Don't you worry about us grunts."

"Did we get everything out of the base?"

"I think we got everything useful. It seems like a couple tons of paper. I gave it a quick look; most of it's either in Arabic or the worst Russian I've ever seen."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. This way." Adams led off to one of the vans, which was obviously heavily burdened. He opened the back door to reveal a very solid safe, at least two feet square and three high, with a double combination lock.

"Where was this?"

"Behind Inarov's throne, or whatever you want to call it. Padrek had a hell of a time blasting it out of the rock without damaging it."

"Any ideas what it contains?"

"Nope. Mouse isn't here, so we can't crack it on site, not gently, at least."

"Can't risk blowing it," Mike agreed. "It'll have to wait until we get back. Speaking of Padrek - is he done rigging?"

"Say the word, and it all comes tumbling down."

"Everybody clear?"

"One more bomb to bring out."

"Okay. Let me know when we're clear." Mike walked over to the closely guarded Chechens. In Arabic, he said, "In a few moments, we will be finished here. You will be allowed to return to retrieve any items of a personal nature before we turn you over to the local authorities."

"Local authorities?"

"The police from Prikumskij. We've arranged for you to be held there pending your trial."

A few knowing smiles passed between the mujahideen. The local authorities? They'd be free before dawn!

"All except you, Qays," continued Mike. "We have a few more questions for you."

Qays' face fell. "Yes, Kildar."

Over the shoulders of the Chechens Mike could see the last bomb being wheeled out, followed closely by Hughes. "That it, Jack?" he called across the field.

"Yes!"

"And is everyone out?"

"Yes!"

In Arabic again, Mike said, "You may go now. You have fifteen minutes."

Quickly, but not running, the Chechens headed for their base. Foolish Ami! Stupid infidel! The mutters grew in confidence as they got closer and closer. By the time the first entered, they were almost laughing.

When the last was out of sight, Mike spoke quietly into the radio.

"Ready, Padrek?"

"Ready, Kildar."

"Drop it."

Padrek gave three blasts on an air horn, repeated it twice, then yelled, "Fire in the hole!" Then he pushed the button.

He had placed nearly two hundred kilos of Semtex, strung with det cord, through every passage and every room of the caverns. When triggered, the PETN exploded at over eight thousand meters per second - more than twenty times the speed of sound. The Chechens were universally obliterated before they could recognize what happened. The megatons of rock that then fell were merely an artistic touch.

"So falls the Emirate," said Mike, walking away.
CHAPTER 39

Moscow; Somewhere near Georgia; Airborne near the Valley; The Caravanserai; On a road to Tbilisi; Russia-Azerbaijan border

April 13

Colonel Erkin Chechnik was still at work, even though it was the middle of the night. His days had been stretching longer and longer with the crisis in Chechnya, and now that the Mountain Tigers were active, well, the days were going to get longer before they got shorter. He'd deliberately funneled all the intelligence gathered on the Kildar's operation area through his office, and his office alone. While he couldn't prevent the Prime Minister from receiving the data, he could at least delay it.

The Liana and Tselina satellites had picked up several burst transmissions, almost certainly encrypted, originating in the Prikumskij area. He had flagged it for decoding. Of course, the low priority he placed on it pretty well guaranteed that nobody would look at them for a week. Maybe ten days.

The Tsirkon wasn't providing any images at present, being a visible-spectrum-only bird. The images from earlier in the day, showing the Keldara vehicles arriving and taking up their positions, and the circling Hind, were sitting on his hard drive, ready to be forwarded. First thing in the morning.

He was scheduled to meet with Putin at ten, which would present some... issues. Well, he'd deal with that in the morning. Walking out, he directed the duty officer, "Anything from Prikumskij, put on my desk. I'll look at it when I return."

The young lieutenant hesitantly said, "Colonel, there is a message directing all information from that area be forwarded to the Prime Minister."

Youth. "Yes, lieutenant, I'm aware of that. In fact, I drafted that directive originally. Did you miss the sentence regarding review of the data? Here, let me see that." Chechnik came around the back of the desk, peered at the screen and the memo in question. "Ah! See? ' - for review by suitable personnel for national security matters.' That is our office, lieutenant, and, specifically, me. You make sure I get the information for review, understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Good night."

=============================

Haroun Tahan knew he should feel honored. After all, hadn't Ibrahim demonstrated faith in his abilities, choosing him to lead the assault on the Valley of the Tigers of the Mountains? Didn't he command a powerful force, well-armed, well-trained, and determined to prove their worthiness as Allah's holy warriors? Had they not crossed hundreds of kilometers smoothly, almost without slowing?

They why was he ready to piss himself?

Tahan wasn't close to the most experienced commander that Ibrahim could have picked. In fact, he was probably the rawest, a fact he was frequently made aware of by warriors such as Rahal and Gereshk. He remembered the last discussion he had with Ibrahim:

"What troubles you, Haroun?"

"I worry that I am unworthy of this honor, that I will fail and shame you."

"Impossible! You are precisely the person I need to lead this mission!"

"Yet I have so much to learn!"

"Where better to learn than in the heat of battle? Is not the finest steel tempered in the hottest forge?"

"Yes, Ibrahim, it is, but if the steel fails, you can reforge it. If I fail -"

"You will not fail." Ibrahim's eyes seemed to blaze with the pronouncement. "I have foreseen it."

That had given him enough confidence to command his column to this point, Itum-Kale, a village near the terminus of the R305, less than sixteen straight kilometers from the Georgian border. This was going to be the tough part, though, as the roads all petered out as they got deeper and deeper into the snow-covered mountains. The machinery would make it, he was sure. But the idea of trying to tackle unknown mountain passes at night, frankly, scared him.

He called a halt for the night just south of the village, all the stolen trucks parked in defensive circles, just as he had been taught.

First light, and they'd tackle the mountains. After a good meal. Probably ought to double-check their position. And it wouldn't hurt to give all the weapons a good cleaning. And he must make sure there was enough time for prayers.

Mid-morning was soon enough.

=============================

Captain Sarah Cheal loved flying the U-2V.

In her early thirties, Sarah was a tall blonde who had the body to prove she spent hours in the gym each week. She'd graduated near the top of her class at the Air Force Academy and had chosen, with her analytical mind, to go into intelligence gathering. To earn her way, she'd spent time as a ground controller and in tech support, even working hands-on with the various planes and drones the Recon squadrons maintained That had caught the attention of her superiors.

It was unusual for a ring-knocker to volunteer to step away from flying, even briefly, and this had engendered a series of interviews. During them she explained that she wasn't at all apprehensive about flying, but simply wanted to have an appreciation for the support structure that would be backing her. Satisfied, she'd been moved to active flight status soon thereafter. She had proven her abilities in the old Prowlers, and as a nav in Orions, before being chosen to move to the new version of the U-2.

She loved it. The old U-2 had been a flying coffin, she'd heard, with a stall speed at altitude of only ten knots less than the plane's maximum speed! Insanity! The new Victor variant, though - this was flying! They'd taken the original design and completely overhauled it with twenty-first century technology.

Carbon fiber and titanium were the major structural components. To assist in flight controls - because the U-2 was always notoriously 'twitchy' at altitude and a pig closer to the ground - the most advanced fly-by-wire system the Air Force could design, a third-generation version of the system in the F-22 Raptor, had been appropriated. The power plant, a Pratt & Whitney F135, had been stolen from the F-35 program, decreasing the needed runway, stretching the endurance and radically boosting the max altitude, and incidentally cushioning that too-slim margin to stall. Now, she could cruise at point eight five Mach at over a hundred thousand feet, watch the planet slide by beneath her, and revel in the joy of it all.

And the sensors she carried! The optics alone could zoom down to pick out the title of a paperback book from altitude. She had infrared cameras, which were running now; antennas to pick up the slightest whisper of electronic noise; passive radar systems that would warn her of any threat literally within sight. For the one drawback of her Victor (or, as she thought of her, Victoria) was her total lack of offensive punch.

If a MiG came screaming after her, her only defense lay in her sensors. Between her eagle eyes and the on-board processors, potential threats had little chance. Of course, if someone popped off a KS-172 'AWACS killer', her subsequent life was probably going to be very, very short.

It was a risk she was willing to take.

Tonight, she was stooging over the Caucasus Mountains, keeping Mount Tabulosmta in sight as her reference point, searching for, well, she wasn't quite sure what. She'd been told it was a lost Russian convoy, that they thought it had gotten turned around and was headed into the Georgian side of the mountains.

She wasn't buying it.

You didn't take Victoria off her regular routine and fly halfway across the world for a lost convoy. Something was going down, something big. Sarah knew better than to ask, though, having gotten a very firm talk from her CO.

"This mission, and everything about it, is classified Ultra Purple. You should probably be brain-scrubbed afterward. Nobody outside of the NCA is authorized to open this compartment. If anyone attempts to discuss this mission with you, you are to report the breach immediately. As far as anyone on this base is concerned, you are being deployed VOCO for an undetermined length of time for flight engineering tests. Do you understand?"

Of course, she'd answered yes, but this was hardly what she'd expected. As far as she could tell, her ground control was somewhere down in the mountains themselves, not a regular ATC at all. In fact, she'd been required to deny contact with any ATC except for take-off and landings.

Exciting shit.

It was nearing twenty-two hundred hours, halfway into her eight-hour patrol, when an icon flashed on her main screen, indicating a possible match. Typing quickly, she ordered a zoom on the source. Twenty-six large heat sources, probably trucks, stationary; three smaller, but hotter sources, also stationary, so campfires; and - Jesus, how many were there? The computer was having a hard time isolating the sources, but finally settled on an estimate of two hundred eighty - a shitload of what could only be people. The processors kicked in and started popping up likely vehicle matches.

Time to call in.

"Tiger base, this is Victorian Lady."

"Go ahead, Lady." The reply was almost instantaneous; good to know she was dealing with professionals.

"Base, I may just have found your lost sheep."

"Go ahead."

"I make out two eight zero sheep. Tentative identification of one each Zulu India Lima, seven each Golf Alfa Zulu, twelve each Tango One Eleven, and eight each Papa Alfa Zulu. Sheep are stationary at this time. Downloading data stream."

"Understood. Receiving data. Continue to monitor and advise of any change."

"Roger, base. Be advised, I am four hours to bingo. Will maintain contact until RTB."

"Understood four hours to RTB. Good work. Tiger Base, out."

Well, that was interesting. Wonder who they really were?

=============================

"What's the plan?"

Guerrin, Nielson, and the Vanners evaluated the latest intelligence.

"Is there any chance that the Tigers will be able to attack them from the rear?" asked Guerrin. "If they can, I'll push north, and we can hammer them between us."

"No, unfortunately. They're still clearing the nukes from the site. Best estimate is at least another four hours before the last ones are en route to Elista."

"What if Dragon carries as well?" prompted Grez.

"Very bad things," interjected Vanner. "Even if she's willing - and I'm sure she is; Bathlick it just crazy enough to do it - I don't think I want a nuke, armed or not, riding around in the back of a combat-loaded chopper."

"I agree," concurred Nielson.

"Especially if she pulls the stunts she did in the pass!" said Guerrin. "The damn thing might go flying out the window!"

"So, that is a no," said Grez. "Can we at least get Dragon back here?"

"I'm sure that both Dragon and Valkyrie will be able to return in time. The feed we're getting from Victorian Lady shows them pretty settled in for the night. They might only be thirty miles away, but it's not an easy thirty miles."

"Closer to forty, actually. That's some tough terrain," added Vanner. "Even the passes are over three thousand meters up in places."

"How long do you think we have?" queried Guerrin.

"It depends on what route they take. Grez?"

She punched a few keys and a large map of the area appeared on the video screen. With a laser pointer, she began.

"They are here," she indicated. "The road they are on, the R305, ends less than a mile south of where they stopped. There are several options for them at that point." She gestured again.

"The best, shortest options all continue west through this valley. The most direct route then veers south, up another mountain valley, for ten or twelve miles. By the end of the trail, though, they're at nearly thirty-two hundred meters. That will make breathing, and driving, more difficult. Then they must cross this pass -" another gesture " - and they're across the border."

"Once in Georgia, their choices are much poorer. An experienced commander may trade time for ease of travel and follow this ravine, between these two mountain ridges. It takes them many miles east before they can cross to the south and finally west, here - " point " - but it should be relatively easy to travel. They still must cross the mountains here -" point " - and here, but the advantage, from our point of view, is that this is one of the approaches we have thickly seeded with sensors. We also have many preprogrammed mortar fire points along that route."

"Other options? If they choose to take a shorter route."

"From the initial border crossing, they can also proceed northwest, across the pass, and then south. The pass, if you want to call it such, is even higher. Thirty-five hundred meters. The only advantage is the distance is perhaps a third. Then, too, there is the most direct route, across the spine of the mountains. But only a fool or an idiot would attempt that!"

"And Schwenke is neither."

"We have this corridor plotted out as well, and they'd still have to cross one pass before entering the northernmost Valley." Vanner looked at the map. "You said there are other routes?"

"Yes. If, instead of south, they continue west while still on their side of the border, they can follow this track." The laser described a gentle arc, curving gradually south as it crossed the border. "This route only entails a single pass and allows them to regain a proper road very quickly."

"Then they just follow the Argavi right up into our back yard," complained Nielson.

"Yes, but again, that's part of our network."

"And my men have been patrolling that area. They're pretty familiar with it, more than any Chechens will be."

"It's going to take hours - maybe even days - for them to move through this crap," said Guerrin. "Are we sure that your Keldara won't be back in time?"

"Not to use them as a hammer to your anvil," corrected Grez. "They may return in time to reinforce. But if they were to attempt a crossing behind the Chechens, they would suffer all the difficulties the Chechens face with some additional disadvantages."

"We did not equip them for an arctic assault, which this would be. They will be on the wrong end of a difficult, and extended, drive. And the vehicles they have taken are not snow-specialized, as we believe the Chechens' to be." She shook her head. "No, Captain, as much as I would wish them to aid in your defense, I'm afraid that we cannot count on their active participation."

"Summary, then, please Grez."

"Likely axis of any attack will be from the north, here, or west, here. Slight chance of an attack from the east."

"And we ought to have Victorian Lady for aerial coverage."

"Yes, Colonel."

"Captain, I think that we ought to deploy your men..."

The meeting lasted well into the small hours.

=============================

Every lead they had chased had turned out to be false.

Four times they had tracked down groups of civilians.

Few Chechens could afford a vehicle, be it car or truck, and fewer still could afford a new one. Most tended to be castoffs from the Russian army, decades old. While not as dangerous as it once was during the height of the civil war, there were still occasional fools who would take shots at the hated Russian symbols. As a safety measure, then, the owners of these trucks had learned to drive together, to emulate a convoy. That made it less likely that anyone would open fire at random.

The last one was particularly galling. Kseniya had dropped the data into their computer, culled from a combination of satellite imagery and Russian official movement orders.

They had been just north of Kocubej, near the Caspian Sea, when the dump had signaled its presence. Their target convoy was about fifty miles south, driving slowly along the R215, a major road leading to Azerbaijan. J was still calm, controlled. Failure was always an option in his line of work, a fact he'd come to terms with years ago.

Katya was not so composed.

"You lack detachment," commented J as they hurtled down the road as quickly as their old Lada could manage. "Of course Schwenke is coming after you. You have interfered with his plans at least twice, caused him much pain and cost him money, time, and reputation."

"What do you know?" spat Cottontail.

"I know Schwenke. He and I met, three times, I believe, although I didn't know it was him the second time. I only learned of it later, when I was reading another agent's report on Schwenke's movements."

"And he let you live?"

"Better say, I let him live." He shrugged. "I had no orders to eliminate him, so I didn't." He looked at her briefly. "You should know now that we do not act impulsively, or out of spite. We do our mission. If the mission is to kill a man, we kill the man. If we are to retrieve a document, we retrieve the document. We do not allow ourselves to be distracted from the mission."

"Yes, master, I know."

"Now, it seems that Schwenke has made it his mission to kill you. I disapprove. I have spent too much time and effort in your training to want to see it wasted. However - if you will not focus on the mission, then I will kill you myself and send Schwenke your body. Perhaps then he would spare the Keldara."

"What do I care about the Keldara? Fucking solder-boys."

"Padawan," he said warningly.

She seemed to deflate. "I try not to care."

"Better. I am actually proud of you, Padawan."

"You are?"

"I am. You care. It showed, on the mission with the Mules. For a moment, you allowed the little girl you once were, the one who had hope, to shine through. Then you put your mask back on. Pity. Even though it may cause you difficulties, in the long run it will permit you to reach your full potential."

The rest of the drive passed in almost companionable silence.

Further and further into Dagestan they drove. The convoy turned off the main road, southwest toward Buynaksk, a city of sixty thousand. Founded in the nineteenth century as a fortified border outpost, it had been the center of the ephemeral Mountainous Republic of the Northern Caucasus, a coincidence that J found quite interesting.

"This could be the one," suggested Cottontail.

"Then why did they not originate here?" speculated J. "No, I think that Inarov merely got his inspiration from the Republic. Or maybe not. Something to remember, Padawan: sometimes a coincidence is just a coincidence."

Finally, just short of the city, they pulled even with the trucks. Even in dim glow cast by the car's lights, they could see that these trucks, while of the right vintage, weren't their targets. Discouraged, they had stopped at a small café for a drink and a reevaluation.

"We need to rest," said J.

"They're counting on us!" insisted Katya.

"They may be, but surely we're not the only arrow in their quiver. No, we have to stop for a time."

"How long? I can drive a while longer."

"I appreciate the offer. If we were in a more comfortable car, I might even accept. But I can't sleep well in that thing. I'm still feeling the last catnap I caught."

"I thought that pain is weakness leaving the body, O Master."

"You're been listening to the Kildar again. Pain may be weakness leaving the body, but it is also a sign that you have been abusing that body. And since I am an agent, not a SEAL - I choose -"

He was interrupted by his mobile.

He activated it, said, "Go."

"Tango acquired. Return." And the line disconnected.

J stood. "Very well, Katya. You can drive."

"I thought -" She drained off her Irish coffee, a taste she'd acquired on a training visit to London. "Destination?"

"Home."

"I know that we haven't succeeded yet, but we haven't failed!"

"No, but someone else must have succeeded. As I said, we are not the only arrow in the quiver."

They paid the bill and made for the car. "So how do we get there from here?"

"Ah, Padawan, the magic of GPS!" J turned on their little SatNav unit, punched in a destination near the Valley - it was simply good tradecraft not to enter the exact destination, just in case - and waited. Moments letter, he had a route, of sorts. Reviewing it, he frowned.

"Problem?"

"We're going to need a better car."

"Master, I know that it isn't very comfortable but -"

"No. Look." He showed her the roads, especially the one that concerned him. It crossed the roof of the mountains between Bezta and Kvareli, in Georgia. The pass was close to four thousand meters up.

"Not this car. How?"

"I haven't used it before, but -" J removed a black, metallic-looking card from a concealed spot. "Feel like doing some shopping?"

"At this time of night?"

"This card will open doors. Trust me."

Sure enough, an hour later they were headed south in an almost-new, maybe-not-stolen BMW M3. Reclining his seat, heater on, massage running, J said, "Now, I will sleep. Wake me in Bezta." Reaching out, he removed the volume control from the stereo.

It was good to be the boss.

=============================

So far, the forged papers worked.

Ibrahim and his small column had been stopped twice. First, near Derbent, was a random checkpoint. A few rubles per car, a few more per passenger, and they were on their way. The Dagestan police forces running the stop had barely spared a glance at the official-looking documents, focusing instead on the money neatly folded inside. They simply waved them through the barriers, after ensuring the baksheesh was enough. The recent uptick in violence and the army uniforms went a long way toward explaining that; the money simply stopped any other questions.

The second stop was more harrowing, though expected. According to the map, the M29 led directly to the border with Azerbaijan, and so it proved. What the maps didn't show was the damage caused by the flooding the previous year, the damage that washed away the bridge and five kilometers of road. An impromptu ferry service was running at the Samur River, the natural boundary, but the lone raft could barely handle two cars per crossing. Three trips, and ninety minutes, later, the last GAZ-23 was unloaded on the frozen mud flats. Twenty minutes later, the vague outline of a road emerged from the wastes and they were able to pick up some speed. Twenty minutes after that, they had to stop.

Instead of police, this check point was manned by members of the Azerbaijani State Border Service, backed up with Azerbaijani Ground Forces.

"Ibrahim!"

"Relax!" hissed Ibrahim. "And remember I am Major Artemy Goloduvosky! Now - silence!" Rolling down the window of the GAZ, Ibrahim fixed an appearance of utter unconcern on his face.

"Good evening!" he called out in perfect Russian. "I hope you've had a quiet night so far!"

"Out of the car. Now! Why are Russian soldiers crossing into Azerbaijan?"

"Of course, of course," said Ibrahim, complying instantly. "My name is Major Artemy Goloduvosky, of the Gagarin Division of the Sixth Army, based in Volgograd. My papers," he added, pulling the documents from inside his coat.

As he peered over the papers with a flashlight, the guard grunted, "Volgograd? Long fucking way out of your neighborhood, aren't you?"

Ibrahim shrugged. "Orders. You understand."

"What orders?"

"Fourth page, there." He gestured, but a fierce glare from the guard settled his hand back by his side. "Or you can find it yourself."

"I will, but why don't you tell me, too?"

"Certainly! We are transporting that old beast - it's called a ZIL-E - to Baku. Some rich American bought it, and he's arranged to have it flown out from there."

"Why not Volgograd?"

Reading the man's rank insignia, Ibrahim said, "Come, Major! You know as well as I that they only tell men of our rank where to go and when, not why!" He shrugged. "It may have to do with the friendship your country has with America."

"Huh. And it takes all of you to drive it there?"

"He's an old machine - would you believe almost forty years? - and it's over a thousand-kilometer drive! All my men are drivers, mechanics, or both, and I've needed them all! Between the fuel pump failing twice, the transmission locking into low gear - let's just say this hasn't been a pleasure drive."

This finally brought a ghost of a smile to the guard major's face. "I imagine. I still must search your vehicles, though. We don't need the crazies from Chechnya or Dagestan spreading their filth here."

Ibrahim spat on the ground. "Line them all up against a wall, if you ask me. Go ahead. I will tell you, though, we are carrying quite a bit of weaponry. Like I said, this is going to be the toy of a rich American, and he was quite insistent that it arrive in one piece."

"Didn't want it stolen out from under him? Don't worry, I understand."

The search of the GAZs was quick and painless. The crate in the back of the ZIL-E, though, brought a shout.

"Major! Found something!" The guard major, followed closely by Ibrahim, trotted back.

"What is it?"

"A big crate. Sealed up."

Climbing up the side of the truck, the major said, "Care to explain this? Doing a little smuggling?"

"Not at all! I was told that it is a replacement turbine for the ZIL-E. I haven't bothered to check, though. You can if you want."

"I think I will." Taking a crowbar handed up from below, he strode over to the crate. Ibrahim sensed, rather than saw, the tension in his men, and subtly waved them back down. With the scream of tortured metal and wood, the cover tore away from the nails.

The cylinder inside was unlike anything the major had ever seen, but he knew one thing: it wasn't contraband. There were what looked to be instructions, or an installation manual, sealed in plastic and taped to the top of the cylinder. He didn't examine it any closer; pissing off this many Russian Ground Force soldiers was a lose-lose proposition.

Climbing down, he said, "A turbine, eh? Big fucker."

"That it is."

"Sorry about the delay. We just have to be careful, these days. Can't allow just anyone through."

"I fully understand. Thank you for your courtesy, major."

"And you, major. Have a safe trip." Gathering his men, he walked back his tent.

Fool, thought Schwenke.
CHAPTER 40

On a Road to the Valley; Elista; Low Earth Orbit; The Valley

April 13

If Chief Adams thought the ride north was uncomfortable, it was nothing compared to the ride back, mostly due to the combination of speed and driver.

SLAM! Another fucking pothole! The truck went airborne, Adams' ass left the seat to rejoin it and the far-too-thin, rock-hard padding on the way down.

WHAM!

"Fuck!"

And another pot-

"I left the Teams for this crap!?" The money was good, it was Ass-Boy 2 asking, but -

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck!"

"I'm gonna need Kurosawa worse than Mike if I'm ever gonna walk aga -"

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck! Just shoot me now!"

Headed north, there was urgency, yes. Warriors headed into combat, eager to face their foes and confident in their abilities. At the same time, though, they were getting farther from their homes and loved ones, and that added a bittersweet note to the journey.

The journey south, though...

Although the Keldara were well-versed in Operational Security, and used the best equipment money could buy, Vanner could kludge, and the Four Blind Mice could reprogram, it was the Kildar's policy to keep nothing from his troops. When the news came in of a threat to the Valley, and all its inhabitants...!

They would have been more than human to resist the urge to hurry.

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck!"

"Slow the fuck down, Jachin!"

The van hit another pothole - he swore Jachin was aiming for the damn things! - and bounced against the old suspension. What was going to break first - his back, the seat, his ass, or the suspension - was anyone's guess.

"Shit!' That one really hurt. Aggravated an old wound, some shrapnel picked up near Baghdad. Or was it Kuala Lumpur? Didn't matter, there were far too many fucked-up missions to remem-

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck!"

He never should have let the kid drive. Maybe, if Jachin slowed down enough that he could use his arms again for something besides bracing, he'd pull out his sidearm and shoot him somewhere fleshy but non-fata-

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck!"

"Faster, Chief?" He swore he heard the tortured engine's scream increase. Fuck the fleshy; shoot him in the balls!

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck!"

"Big one ahead, Chief!" At least the little prick warned him that time; his arms tightened against the roof to keep his head from smashing again-

SLAM! WHAM! "Fuck me!'

===============================

Kacey was bushed.

There hadn't been any problems - yet, she reminded herself - but she'd put hundreds of kilometers on her bird in the past few hours. At least Anechka could rack out on the return trips; she couldn't.

Now she was facing a combat op on top of this ferrying shit?

Not good. Time for a command decision.

"Valkyrie, Dragon."

"Go Dragon."

"Tammy, we're almost to Elista. I still have enough gas to get home; I'm gonna shag ass out of here as soon as your wheels touch the ground."

"Thanks a lot. Leave me to fly back alone."

"Hey, no sweat. You can catch a nap on the ground in Elista before heading back."

"Oh yeah, in the middle of a couple dozen nukes. Sounds real healthy." Of the two, Tammy was much more health conscious.

"Your choice. Didn't think you were planning on pumping out brats any time soon. Should have told me; I'll throw you a baby shower you'll never forget." Tammy could hear Kacey's shrug as her mind raced for a comeback. "I'm RTB and bed, at least until it's time for the Dragon to feed. Out."

"See you at home. Out." She switched over to the intercom. "Naida? What do you think - stay and nap, or head right for home?"

"I could sleep, ma'am. But I would like to go home. And we don't know what the weather will bring," she added hopefully.

"Good point. I always sleep better in my own bed, too," agreed Tammy. "Okay, then, we'll offload this last load and didee home."

===============================

The KH-13 satellite nicknamed 'Misty' officially didn't exist.

The KeyHole series of satellites ended at the KH-11. Anyone in DOD or the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) would tell you that.

KH-12? The Advanced KeyHole? A Tom Clancy dream.

KH-13? Don't be ridiculous! A stealth satellite? Impossible!

Even the report in 2007 that Misty had been cancelled, by no less a personage than the SecDef himself, only brought the bland comment, "The Secretary has the authority to cancel projects as he sees fit."

Still, she flew on.

Launched in 1990, she was a veritable ancient among satellites. Her stealthy nature - that much, at least, the press had gotten correct - forbade the deployment of the usual array of solar panels. The solution? A half-dozen  radioisotope thermoelectric generators (RTG), each capable of pouring out over a hundred fifty watts of power continuously for half a century.

There was a drawback, of course. The RTGs used pressed plutonium oxide pellets as their power source. Had it been known, this would have doomed the project from the start. Another reason to keep it quiet.

And, due to the extended - and completely covert - nature of her mission, radical orbital shifts simply weren't possible. She simply couldn't carry enough reactant to create a delta-vee of more than a few centimeters per second.

But, finally, she was in position over the Caucasus, and her high-powered electro-optical 'eyes' peered at the Earth below.

There was Captain Cheal in the Victoria.

A line of vans and trucks headed to Georgia at high speed? Keldara, headed home.

Confirmation! In the mountains, near the Georgian border - the missing vehicles appropriated by the followers of the late Emir, Giku Inarov.

All these were immediately queued up and delivered to the Cave - and a few other select locations.

What wasn't downloaded immediately was the image of four GAZ-23s escorting a lumbering ZIL-E167 northwest along the M1, the main road from Baku to Georgia.

When it was finally downloaded, later in the morning in routine housecleaning, it was diverted by an NRO watchdog program. Azerbaijan was definitely NOT Georgia or Chechnya, the two regions that the Keldara - or, as the program knew them, 'Authorized User Kilo Three Two' - had been granted immediate access to.

In fact, it took nearly eight more hours before a secondary protocol, based on the vehicle descriptions, caused the data to be forwarded.

And then, since it was outside the primary area - plus the more immediate threat of trucks coming through the pass - another six hours would pass before anyone in the Cave noted the little convoy.

Murphy had struck again.

===============================

"Are you sure this is safe?"

Padrek, the most technically-savvy of the Keldara team leaders, was standing back from Major Hughes, who was occupied with spot-welding heavy lead shielding over the damaged nukes. It took a fine touch and a gentle hand; the combination of soft metal and low melting point made it, well, frustrating as hell didn't do it justice.

"Compared to what?" quipped Jack from behind the welder's mask.

"I didn't think so," said Padrek, stepping back another pace.

"No, seriously, it's nothing to worry about. The heat, the sparks, they won't do anything to the fissile material. Might screw up the electronics, but that wouldn't be a bad thing."

"No," agreed Padrek. Still, he didn't step closer.

The careful plan - drive to Elista, get evacced by air back to Tbilisi, let the nukes fly off wherever they were headed for - had gone out the window about 3am. That's when Nielson had called in and let the Kildar know that one of the missing nukes - the one headed for the Valley! - had been located.

It might have been marginally faster to keep to the plan. Maybe. It was still a hell of a drive to Elista. It didn't matter, though. Within fifteen minutes, every Keldara, save Padrek and a half-dozen of his team, was in the vehicles and barreling south.

Hughes had flown with Dragon to Elista, to start making the necessary patches for safe transport to Novorossijisk. Padrek had overhead the Kildar saying something about wanting his own plane, but not a radioactive one. And Chatham would make him buy it out of spite if he abused them.

Whatever.

Qays was still with them, trying to be inconspicuous. After the demolition of the headquarters, he wasn't sure that he wasn't next. He didn't have to worry; the Kildar had been very clear about that.

"He's just a dumb kid," he said, gesturing with his thumb. "I don't think the Russians would take kindly to him, though, so he's your problem for now."

"What do I do with him, then?"

"Take him with you."

"All the way?"

"At least to Tbilisi. Maybe back to the Valley. You talk to him, find out if he's worth anything to us. If nothing else, I'm sure Shota could use another grunt." He shrugged. "In for a penny, in for a pound. Feed him up, make sure he's healthy, then run him through training. If he breaks, he breaks. We've got the backhoe."

That was about the last he'd said, climbing aboard the smallest of the jets in the Chatham white and blue with Katrina.

So here he was. Babysitting nukes. Babysitting a man welding lead shielding on broken nukes. And babysitting a potential turncoat. Wasn't it wonderful to be a Team leader?

The Major was almost done with this one, he could see.

"How many more?"

"Five. About another half hour. I'd have wrapped them in lead foil, if that was available quickly. Welding lead is a bitch."

"Good."

"Are the other ones already loaded?"

"Yes, Major. We've been loading them as soon as you finished them."

"You have any idea how we're supposed to get home?" It was disconcerting to hold a conversation like this, thought Padrek. Shouldn't he be concentrating on the welding?

"I was supposed to ride with the Kildar," continued Hughes. "Welding these nukes was NOT part of the job description."

"Aboard Valkyrie, I suppose," suggested Padrek. "Just be grateful it's not Dragon."

"Sounds like a story."

"Well..."

===============================

Mike and Katrina had caught a lift with Dragon back to the Elista airport, where they boarded the smallest of the Chatham jets for the run to Tbilisi, the G550 being down for serious maintenance after the speed run across Europe. There had been little conversation.

Mike's thoughts were turned toward the upcoming battle. Assuming the Keldara could complete the trip in time, they'd almost certainly hold an overwhelming advantage over Schwenke and his men.

Three hundred Chechens. He had two hundred Rangers, plus the Keldara, plus, if necessary, he could pull in the Rams. No Mules, though, which put a hurt on his heavy-weapons mobility.

What the fuck were they doing? Didn't matter; they're not here. Concentrate on assets on hand.

Fixed mortar positions, with the most heavily trafficked routes in and out dialed in. Plus, he'd trust the girls to drop heavy fire on any position they could reach. They'd trained hard - though he wasn't sure it wasn't because they just loved hearing the rounds go boom! No matter, they were trained up as well as could be managed. And with the sensors to lock in on positions - deadly.

Kacey and the Dragon, though he didn't know which was more dangerous. Dragon hadn't had a good feed since -

Kat curled into his lap, disrupting his chain of thoughts for a second.

Concentrate.

All Vanner's little toys. Sensors that could go boom!, and he was talking about getting hold of some manjack autocannons - those would add another layer of security to their perimeter, if the damn things could be trusted to target foes, not friends. Mike still preferred the old Mark One Eyeball when it came to distinguishing friend from foe. Technology could be spoofed; humans were harder, for even the most adept at camouflage brought some of their habits and mannerisms with them.

Okay, so tech was a clear advantage for them, and, he had to assume, the quality and training of the troops, whether Ranger, Tiger, Ram, or some combination of all three.

On paper - a cakewalk.

So why was he worried? He looked down at the kitten asleep in his lap

Two words: Kurt Schwenke.

No, he didn't have any experience in field tactics. At least as far as Mike knew.

No, the force he was leading wasn't exactly the best of the best. In fact, in terms of raw material, it was probably as poor as it could get. It seemed that late Emir had found every possible corner to cut on training and supplies for his troops. And the men themselves would be shit, even those who had survived other skirmishes. Can't stiffen spit with iron; it just rusts.

No, the weapons and ammo he carried with him would necessarily be quite limited, whatever the men could carry plus some in the vehicles. He supposed they could have hit an arms depot, but there hadn't been any reports that he'd heard of. Get the Cave to check on that. Although the SAMs were top-of-the line. But why use them on drones?

Drones were dumb. They could be spoofed with just a bit of work, killed with much less capable weapons. Hell, an AK-47 could take one down if you could get enough rounds on it. No, using the SAMs was overkill. Why? Schwenke never did anything without a reason.

That was something to think about.

Still.

This was Schwenke, the man behind the operational details of Marina Arensky's kidnapping, who had nearly gotten away clean.

The man who had so completely infiltrated Juan Gonzalez' organization that SOCOM had no idea who he was, who had only been 'made' by a single person - Katya. A sociopath picked out by a sociopath.

A man who knew no bounds when it came to pursuing his own ends.

A man with a nuclear bomb and a reason to use it. The same obstruction that had disrupted his plans twice before. Katya Ivanova. Cottontail.

Shit.

Kat stirred in his lap, as if sensing his distress.

Taking the head of the enemy - an old, old tradition, symbolizing the total defeat of the foe. Well, it wouldn't be symbolic this time. It would be a necessity. He'd have to remember to give that order.

"Michael?" Kat's voice was sleepy but full of concern. "I see that you are worried." She rubbed her eyes. Fuck. He'd awakened her. When he spoke, it was harsher than he intended.

"A goddamn nuke is heading for home behind three hundred Chechens and a certifiable lunatic! Of course I'm worried!"

"Isn't this what you trained the Keldara for? And the Rams, too?"

"I didn't train them for a nuclear weapon! No way in hell we have enough shelter for even the Keldara, even with the serai and their root cellars. And Alersso? Forget them!"

"Michael." Her soft, almost placid, tones penetrated. "We are warriors. We serve the All-Father, and the Goddess. If it is our fate to fall in battle, we fall. But you have given us a chance to stand, instead."

"I have given you a chance to be wiped out, is what I've done!" he snarled. "I didn't sign up to fight off a nuclear assault, and the Keldara sure as hell didn't! It's not fair, and it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't intruded on your lives!"

"And who said that life is fair? Or that it had to be? Was it fair before you came? And if you hadn't come? We'd be under the Russians again." There was a timbre to her voice that made Mike's head snap up. In that instant, he didn't see a seventeen-year-old girl, hidden away in a remote valley for most of her life. Instead, he saw the next priestess of the Keldara's Goddess.

"Life is struggle and strife, Michael. Conflict between the cold and the fire. Each of us are given a choice to stand up or stand aside. We Keldara have always chosen to stand up. We are of warrior blood, kept pure from ancient times. Made stronger by our Fathers and our Priestesses. We take what is needed to make us stronger, discard that which would weaken us. We honor our past."

"Many have fallen. Many more will fall. If it is written that we shall fall now, then fall we shall. But in this, there is no blame for men who stand, or the consequences of their stand, or the women who bore them!" Her voice grew stronger with each word. "If we fall, it is fitting that we fall as one. Keldara. Born with axe in hand. Dying with our axes, our enemies piled about our feet, even if they should bring the very sun down to the Valley. Our shades will curse them and their line to the end of time, if that happens. This is the way of the Keldara, husband-to-be."

He simply turned away. "I need to think."

This wasn't going to be easy at all.

He'd been wrong before, and all it had cost him was pain.

What if he was wrong now?

What would the cost be then? Could his soul - frayed and tattered it may be, but he knew it for his own - survive at the cost of the Keldara?

He stared out the window until the plane touched down in Tbilisi, unable to look at Kat. Afraid that she'd look into his eyes and see his thoughts.

Doubt was the least of it.

===============================

First light.

The men of Bravo Company, First of the Seventy-Fifth, were ready.

Weapons were cleaned, loaded, and ready for action.

Assignments were given.

The protocols were clear.

But.

Where was the enemy?

Rangers are not, by temperament, inclined to sit and wait.

They're trained to go out and bring the fight to the foe.

This morning, though, the foe was nowhere to be found.

A freezing mist fell gently from the sky. Perfect weather to attempt an assault. And yet -

Tac net - silent. Sensors they were tied into - silent. Even good old Mark One eyeball - silent.

It was maddening.
CHAPTER 41

Near the Georgia Border; The Cave; The Road from Tbilisi to the Valley; A Road to Moscow

April 13

It was nearly ten before Haroun Tahan and his men broke camp.

It wasn't easy getting moving in the high, cold air. The machinery did fine, but the men were reluctant to leave the relative warmth of their tents. Tahan exhorted, bullied and cajoled them into motion; Ibrahim had entrusted the mission to him, and he would not allow these men to fail him. Still, it wasn't easy. He hadn't wanted to climb from bed, either.

The briefing he'd received had been less than detailed about the routes and the relative scale of the challenge facing him and his men. Looking around at the rising slopes and craggy outcrops, Tahan realized that this was probably intentional. If he'd known, he might have been a little more reluctant himself about assuming command!

Well, nothing for it. He consulted the GPS unit Ibrahim had provided him again. The target was set as their destination, but the total lack of roads in the mountains didn't seem to have confused the device in the slightest. It held true, directing them nearly exactly south-west.

The old Soviet-era trucks were having no problems with the meter-deep snow that persisted in the mountains along the Russia-Georgia border. Tahan had been canny enough to set the gigantic ZIL-E167 in the forefront, crushing the snow below its six massive tires, virtually creating a road where none had existed before.

The Tatras and the PAZs easily widened and packed the remaining snow, allowing the smaller, Jeep-like GAZ-69s easy passage. All in all, he was quite proud of his ingenuity.

The track they left behind could have been read by a blind man.

Captain Cheal was neither.

She and her U-2V sent a nearly continuous stream of data back to the Keldara, noting the arrow-straight course of the slowly approaching force. Minute by minute, the combined observations by Captain Cheal and a virtual constellation of satellites, American and Russian, had produced a detailed description of his force's composition, speed, and projected destination:

Through the heart of the mountains to the Valley of the Keldara.

===============================

Grez couldn't believe it.

What sort of complete moron would come across the spine of the mountains?

"It's not Schwenke."

Her announcement, quiet as it was, in the humming depths of the Cave, still brought the combined activities of her team to a complete halt.

"Grez?" Anisa recovered first. "What isn't Schwenke?"

"The force we're tracking, here," she replied, pointing to the large plasma display opposite her. "They're coming in dumb. Really dumb. Straight line from Itum-Kale to here?" She tapped a few keys, and a projected course appeared. "Right into the Valley. Stupid. Completely exposed. It's like a child, given written instructions, or -" She paused. "Or a GPS. An older one, that doesn't 'think'."

"She's right," agreed Stella. "There's at least sixteen, eighteen kilometers of mountain peaks - not passes, peaks - between here and there. They'll have to have the luck of Amaton, the blessing of Skadi and the skills of Ull to get across there!"

"Then who is it?" asked Kseniya, the least experienced of the four.

"More important - where is Schwenke?" said Grez. "Has Kassab regained consciousness yet?"

"Not yet," answered Stella. "Dr. Arensky checked on him about an hour ago."

"Call the doctor, ask him if we can rouse him somehow. Meanwhile," she continued, turning to Anisa, "Get Lilia and Olga up here. Before we go upstairs with this, I want them to talk to the prisoner that came back with Padrek. What's his name?"

"Does it matter?" muttered Kseniya, darkly. "They'll probably scare him half to death. Almost better to use Catrina, and Elena, if they were here. They'd have the information out of him in an houri."

After the near-constant tension, the short shifts and shorter sleep, this was the final straw.

When Vanner came running to see why his Cave was filled with howling screams of laughter, the look of concern on his face just doubled them over and laugh even harder.

Vanner wisely left the Cave in seek of a drink before he resumed his disturbed nap. He was due on shift in less than two hours.

===============================

"No!"

"Doctor, it is absolutely vital that we interrogate the prisoner, the sooner the better."

"Absolutely not!"

Grez had called Arensky, who had seemed reluctant, somehow, so she went to talk to Nielson. He'd heard her out, then called Arensky up to his office to discuss the matter of the prisoner. So far, the interview was not progressing well.

"He cannot be awakened; it is simply not possible! And he certainly could not be asked questions!"

"What are you not telling me, Doctor?" pursued Nielson. "I have a prisoner I need to interrogate; that's all I really care about. I just want to know if you can wake him up. I'll deal with the rest."

"Possibly," admitted Arensky. "It is not that easy, however."

"Explain, Doctor."

Arensky sighed and settled into a nearby chair. "Simply put, there are complications. He hasn't recovered from the anaesthetic yet."

"I thought you said he'd be awake a few hours after it cleared his system."

"Yes, I did, but you must realize that, while anaesthesiology may be an exact science, I am only an amateur at it. I can guess dosages, and expected reactions, but?" He shrugged. "The texts, the training I can get, they deal with the most common drugs - ether, propofol, nitrous oxide, even morphine - yet I deal with, ah, more exotic chemicals."

"Yes, your experiments, we're well aware of your research and the benefits we've all reaped from it."

Since his arrival in the Valley, Dr. Arensky had continued his practice of microbiology, utilizing various local flora and fauna, even turning over rocks and scraping lichen. He had isolated a potent antibacterial agent, occurring naturally in the Keldara, and replicated it in his lab.

Initial commercial interests from the big drug companies had been enthusiastic, to say the least. It appeared that the next successor to penicillin, which Arensky had named Martinadox after his daughter, could have an even bigger financial impact on the Valley than Mountain Tiger Beer.

When Arensky needed research subjects, the non-Keldara residents had been more than willing to participate. Fortunately, none had experienced anything but the mildest side effects. And none had caught so much as a sniffle since being treated.

"Yes, well, I used one of my own blends for his anaesthetic."

"Why? Didn't we have anything else available?"

"No, we keep a stock of both ether and propofol. I simply prefer my own compounds, as I have more experience and familiarity with them. Does Kurosawa buy off the shelf? Or mix his own? Does Lasko purchase his rounds in Alerrso? Or are they custom made?"

"Okay, I understand that. What's the problem, then? If you're so much more familiar with it, why hasn't he awakened? Did you get the dose wrong?"

"Colonel!" Arensky's face colored. "I assure you, I calculated the correct dosage! I have tested his blood, and his system is clear of the drug! He should be awake!"

"Then why isn't he?"

Arensky hesitated. "I would rather tell you and the Kildar at the same time," he stalled.

"Mike has flown to Tbilisi to retrieve Miss Rakovich and some luggage. He's driving back with her; I expect him in two hours, perhaps less." He looked sharply at Arensky. "When he returns, I would like to tell him that we've been able to interrogate the best prisoner we've managed to capture or, failing that, tell him why not. So, please, explain to me."

"Ah, Colonel, he seems to have had an, er, unexpected reaction."

"I could tell you that. What kind of reaction, and what are you doing to correct it?"

"It's an allergic reaction of some kind, I'm fairly sure. It appears to have raised his temperature considerably, for several hours, but we have managed to reduce the fever using medicinal and physical means -"

"Clarify."

"That is to say, we gave him aspirin and put him in an ice bath."

"See? I understood that. So - the drug you gave him caused a fever. Fine, why didn't you just say so?"

"It was a very high fever."

"How high is very high, Doctor?"

"As near as we can tell, it peaked at 110 for fifty-seven minutes."

"You got it down though, right?"

"Oh, yes, Colonel, we did, after some time. The brain is very difficult to treat directly, of course, since you cannot simply hold the head in the cold water." Arensky essayed a weak smile at his joke, but getting no reaction, continued. "Eventually, yes, his temperature fell to 102 and stabilized."

"That still sounds fairly high; when my children were at young my wife would keep them home from school if they ran that temperature. Okay, though, so you got his temperature down some. What happens at that higher temperature?"

"At that temperature, many of the chemicals which allow the brain to function - proteins and lipids, especially - begin to break down into simpler components."

"Will they re-form when the fever broke? Or do you have to replace them, an IV or something?"

"Ah, neither. Once broken down in situ, as it were, they are rather toxic."

"Toxic."

"Highly, at least to neurons."

"What you're saying, then, is our prisoner is brain-dead." Nielson managed to say this absolutely calmly.

"Essentially, yes, Colonel."

"Cooked brain. Fried forelobe? Good eats for your local undead?"

"I - I am not sure exactly what you mean, but, yes, I think so."

"Thank you, Doctor. Please, don't let me keep you from your patient." Coming around his desk, Nielson led Arensky to the door. "Keep me posted if there is any change."

"Of course, of course!" agreed Arensky, opening the door. "I will let you know instantly!"

"Good, good," soothed Nielson. "Good day." As soon as the door closed, Nielson let out a heartfelt, "Goddammit!"

Murphy chuckled and went looking for more mischief.

===============================

Mike was heading back from the Tbilisi airport with Stasia and Kat. An older Keldara - Mike thought his name was Vasily - had arrived driving one of the farm Expeditions, but instead of accepting the ride Mike had piled it high with the various boxes, bags, packages, and luggage the girls had accumulated on their trip. They'd even broken out tie-down straps and covered the roof.

Stasia had been on a mission, armed with the most powerful credit cards known to man: single-handedly kick-start the American economy. At first glance, it seemed that she made a good beginning.

And Katrina was learning from her.

Sigh.

Resolved to put his dark thoughts from the plane aside and simply enjoy the drive in the Mercedes, he gathered the women and left for the Valley, Vasily left quickly behind.

He'd just found the satellite radio station he'd found in the States when the sat phone rang. Shit.

"Jenkins."

"How far away are you?"

"About an hour, Dave. Why?"

"We have new problems."

Mike sighed. "What now?"

"You remember Kassab? The raghead Pavel's team captured in Groznyy?"

"Yeah. What about him?"

"Well, we're going to have to find a new source of information."

"He won't talk? Let me have a little time with him..."

"No, it's not that he won't talk - well, maybe it is."

"Leave him to me. A sledgehammer to the knee has a way of persuading a man that Lilia and Olga just can't match."

"It's not a problem with their technique, Mike. Maybe I should have said that he can't talk."

"He ought to be recovered by now," Mike mused aloud.

"Ought to be, yes. But it seems he had an allergic reaction to one of Arensky's cocktails."

"Allergic? What, hives?"

"No-o-o-o, more like a fever that cooked his cranium."

There was silence for a moment as Mike digested this.

"It can do that?"

"According to the good doctor, yes."

Moving quickly to the crux of the problem, Mike asked, "So what's the issue? It would have been nice to get him to confirm the destination of the final weapon, but at this point, I think I want to let Chechnik deal with it."

"That's not exactly the problem we needed him to solve."

"Stop the bullshit, Dave. What's going on?"

"Schwenke."

"Yeah, he's headed there."

"No, he's not. Maybe. Probably. We don't know where he is. That is to say, we have no fucking clue."

"What do you mean, 'no he's not'? We have confirmation that he was leading the force dispatched to take out the Valley!"

"It's too involved to go into on the phone, but Grez believes - and I concur - that the force he's supposedly leading is acting way too dumb to be actively led by him."

"Maybe he suffered an accident of some kind? And his deputy is doing the best he can?" Mike asked hopefully.

"Possible, but unlikely. I'll let Grez explain her thinking when you arrive -"

But Mike had already changed gear. "Doesn't matter. Okay, assume that he isn't with them. Fuck!" There was silence on the line as he thought furiously.

"Right. First, everything else in the Cave stops as of now. First and only priority is figuring out where Schwenke went. Other assets can track them and report any changes. We have time?"

"Some. They took the route from hell."

"Second, get on the line with Pierson and Chechnik. We've got to have more eyes on this problem. I know we're not getting every piece of data from the entire region; we haven't needed it. Now we do. Get them searching across all of Chechnya, Dagestan, Ossetia, Azerbaijan, Kalmykia - every district, republic, and country from Georgia north to Moscow. We ought to see if the Sheik has any sources in Kazakhstan we can utilize -"

"Otryad's not available right now, remember? Dubai?"

"Dammit! I keep forgetting about his little 'project'! Still, worth a call. Someone's got to be minding the store while he's away."

"I'll try."

"Finally, find J and Cottontail. I want to pick their brains, see if we can sit down and make a reasonable guess where Schwenke is going, if not to the Valley."

"Right. Cave, OSOL, Chechnik, Sheik, J. Anything else?"

"No - yes. Tell Bridgewater that I'll need a drink when I get back and tell Kurosawa to stay the fuck away from me with his needles today unless he want to eat one! We'll be back sooner." Without another word, Mike disconnected the phone. "Ladies? You might want to hang on."

He mashed his foot on the accelerator. The 6.2-liter V-8 responded, going from a throaty growl to a full-fledged roar. The Merc, already fairly flying along the narrow, twisting, tree-overhung road, leapt forward.

Stasia's scream of ecstasy as they tore through the first hairpin curve could barely be heard.

Mike had cranked the stereo. "Shake Your Foundation" roared through the system. Katrina, in the back seat with Stasia, finally understood what was so exciting about the music, but the adrenaline that flooded her system prevented any reaction like Stasia had to the heavy bass.

She was certainly enjoying the vibrations. Again.

And again.

And again.

It seemed certain that, once they arrived home, someone would have detail the leather seats very carefully. After they peeled Stasia out of them and carried her to her room.

The smile on her face, belying the seriousness of the situation, looked to be a permanent feature.

===============================

Bursuk Gereshk didn't have the luxuries the Ibrahim had afforded himself - no official-looking vehicles, no faked papers, no uniforms. That wasn't going to stop him.

A lorry, driving along the A154, had been forced to stop. The driver and his assistant were killed, their bodies quickly hidden off the road, and the bomb loaded far forward, against the wall of the cab.

Of Gereshk's twelve men, ten were able to fit in the other half of the truck bed, edging as far as possible from the weapon. The other two - men Gereshk trusted to relieve him as drivers - were with him in the cab. The cargo? The crates of turnips were piled high against one door of the bed, to provide concealment if they were stopped. It also made a good windbreak for his men.

Not that he cared for anything but his mission.

Gereshk knew why he had been chosen for this mission. He had spent nearly two years as a student of the Russians at their Moscow Military School before being expelled for refusing to disavow the faith of his ancestors.

He had carried a battered half of a Qur'an, an heirloom handed down from his grandfather, an Imam, through all his schooling. He had kept it concealed successfully all those years, until his fourth term at the MMS. There, a classmate, a lying pig of an infidel named Erkin, had found the tattered book among Gereshk's belongings.

He'd begged and pleaded with Erkin, swore that he only carried it to keep the memory of his grandfather, that he was a good soulless minion of the Soviet state. Erkin had finally relented, he said, and returned the precious object. Gereshk, relieved, took the book with him to that afternoon's physical combat training.

Erkin, of course, had lied.

Upon returning, he found guards on either side of his door, and the commandant of the school at his desk.

The interview - interrogation, really - had been brutal and short. At the end, he was dismissed from the school, disgraced, reduced in ranks and sent to Anadyr, a small town in Russia's Far East, to serve the remainder of his term of service. He had vowed revenge on Erkin.

Now, he would get his chance. His time in Moscow, coupled with his desire to see his old nemesis humiliated or even dead, made him the logical choice to lead the mission. He knew Moscow better than any other two men serving the Emir, and Ibrahim's sources had discovered that Erkin, now a colonel in the Russian Federal Security Service, was not only stationed in Moscow but was also the man primarily responsible for suppression of internal security threats.

So, even if the bomb failed to kill him, he would be exposed as a massive failure at his post. He would be blamed and feel the shame and loss of honor that Gereshk had, so many years ago.

If he survived.

The nondescript lorry made its lumbering way north, along the M6. Nobody noted its steady progress at a little over fifty kilometers per hour, slow for the surrounding traffic but not suspiciously so. It was simply another old, tired truck. Others of its ilk had formed a semi-convoy behind. Another time, this might have worried him. But here, now, it simply provided more cover.

Another twelve hours and they would intersect the M4, which would finish carrying their deadly cargo to Moscow. Then, it would be time to wait for word to execute their mission.

And if no word came? Gereshk would execute it himself and become a martyr of Allah. He'd curse Erkin to the hell that surely awaited the infidel even as he pressed the detonator.
CHAPTER 42

The Valley

April 13

Twenty-three kilometers of frozen hell in four hours.

And that was with Allah smiling on them.

Tahan stood in the afternoon sunshine, just below the crest of the final ridge, peering through a powerful pair of binoculars. He could just make out the domed roof of the thrice-dammed leader of the infidel Keldara's caravanserai, the very heart of the beast. It outraged him that such a building - so obviously Islamic! - should be defiled by heathen such as these. The weapon would provide a cleansing fire.

None of the vehicles had broken down, although the arduous crossing had taken a toll on the men. Many were suffering from frostbite, the cold and snow having penetrated their scanty gloves and boots. Eight had perished along the journey, victims of hidden crevasses which swallowed them as if they had never been. Thirteen more suffered lesser injuries, sprains and a few broken bones, but still able to function and fight.

Now, all that separated them from their goal was a lone river valley, stretching southwest about fourteen kilometers. There was little cover, true - it seemed to be intended for farmland, though there was scant evidence of any planting yet, though at least there didn't seem to be any snow - but Tahan was unconcerned.

Not a single farmer was in view, which a more experienced commander might have found suspicious. But to Tahan's eyes, it was simply more proof of Allah's favor. Perhaps he and his men would survive the mission. Allah be praised, he would joyfully martyr himself for the faith - but if it was Allah's will that they didn't have to?

He would have been more than human to not wish that.

Tahan reached into his shirt and retrieved Ibrahim's instructions. It comforted him to see the handwriting of Allah's most faithful servant, though he had long since memorized the words:

"Proceed down the river valley. Close to within at least three kilometers of the caravanserai, nearer if possible."

Three kilometers was the key. With the relatively small size of the weapon, Ibrahim had explained, the explosion had to occur within that distance of the center of the valley to ensure that the entire population was within the area of total destruction. Closer, of course, was preferable, but not necessary. Inshallah.

"When progress is no longer practical, disable the ZIL-E by any means available" - the list was quite extensive and included soil in the carburetor, grenades under the transmission, and even such simple tricks as removing spark plugs - "and activate the weapon."

This was achieved with a cell phone Ibrahim had provided, with a single preset number. Once dialed, the number would ring three times then Tahan would need to enter an eight-digit code.

After that?

The instructions said that the timer would be twenty minutes, but didn't order a last-stand defense of the ZIL-E. So Tahan intended to spend those minutes fleeing the area that he imagined would be the fingerprint of Allah, wiping all trace of the heathens and their works from the Earth. Working vehicles would help, but he thought that, even on foot, he and his men would have enough time to get clear of the area.

He scanned the valley once more. Still nobody in sight. The sun was bright in the sky, a shining beacon above the far end of the valley. That would make his travel easier. No need to go slowly if they could see the potential obstacles.

He made his decision. They were unobserved, undetected. Allah's blessing, like the sun, was shining gloriously down on them.

"Forward for glory! Forward for the Emir! Forward for Allah!"

His men echoed his cry and began to move.

===============================

"Movement."

They weren't unobserved. Captain Guerrin, dug into a well-prepared bunker three kilometers to the south, watched the toy-like vehicles begin their descent down the slope.

"Looks like they finally decided to join the party," he commented to nobody in particular. The Rangers had pulled back their long-ranging patrols, concentrating their forces and (hopefully) lulling the invaders into a false sense of security. A furious argument between Mike, Nielson, and Guerrin had changed the battle plans considerably.

"You're an idiot!" insisted JP. "You can't let them get anywhere near this valley!"

"There's some information, unconfirmed, that is making us change our thinking," said Nielson placatingly.

"Lilia and Olga couldn't get anything out of Qays?" interrupted Mike, who had arrived only moments before.

"Not a thing. He was willing enough, but to the best of his knowledge, Schwenke - Ibrahim - was leading this force." Nielson shrugged. "I really don't think he held anything back."

"No," agreed Mike. "He wouldn't've. He's just too scared. Besides, I think the chance to be on the winning side for once may have persuaded him."

"What information?" demanded JP, impatiently. "Dammit, I have to be in the loop on shit like this!"

"Captain." Nielson's voice was like ice. "I am getting to that."

"Sorry, sir,"

"The reason you haven't been informed yet, Captain," Nielson continued, "is because we have not been able to confirm the data. Since this data could affect your operational deployment in a potentially negative manner, I decided to withhold it pending further developments." The military bureaucratese washed over JP like a tide. Mike made a face. Abuse of the language to that degree deserved creative - no, make that Creata-ive - punishment.

"Yes, sir." He felt his back stiffen involuntarily. With all their usual informality, JP sometimes forgot that these Mountain Tigers were, at their core, true professionals.

"At ease, JP," said Mike after a moment. "What Dave means is, he'd rather take the chance of you being over prepared than under prepared."

His confusion must have registered on his face.

"Okay, short version. We don't think that this force -" Mike gestured to the hostile icon, blinking balefully on the large video screen. " -is commanded by the person we believed. We think that the replacement is a much less experienced operator and will therefore make mistakes."

"'The world's best swordsman doesn't fear the second best; he fears the worst swordsman, because he can't predict what the idiot will do,'" intoned Nielson. He'd read it somewhere, he couldn't remember where, but it fit perfectly.

"Dave, this is my decision. If it's not Schwenke, then he's less dangerous to us, period full stop end of debate. Yes, he might get lucky and get away with doing something stupid once. I think, though, that, whoever he is, he's been left with a list of instructions and is following them to the letter. That gives us the advantage."

"He won't be able to react to changing conditions, while we can," said JP.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Mike. "Instead of hammering him farther out, I want to suck him in. If they scatter, here or here," pointing to the small valleys just north of theirs, "we'll never catch them all. Remember, these are small nukes. It could be in any of the vehicles they have."

"I'd put money on the ZIL-E," suggested Nielson. "It's the most capable, most heavily-armored, most-survivable vehicle."

"Probably," agreed Mike. "But it's not a gimme. And if they've come this far, well, I don't intend for a single one to slip away."

"Why not attack them before they reach this ridge?" asked JP. "We can trap them between the ridges, hammer them flat, without ever letting them come closer than ten miles."

"Range," said Nielson.

"Dave's right. For this battle, we need the mortars to cover you. If the Tigers were back, or if the Rams were a little further along in their training, we'd have the manpower to completely overwhelm them. As it stands, though, we have to count solely on your company. Like I said, I don't want a one to escape." Mike's grin was purely feral.

"Is there any chance that your Tigers will arrive before the Chechens?"

"No," said Nielson at Mike's look. "Four more hours, minimum, maybe as many as six. The Chechens will be peeking into our back yard in less than two."

JP looked at the map. "So, we need the mortars to be in range, but still far enough away so that the nuke won't cook us."

"Cook the Valley, yes. I'm afraid you're going to be a little bit closer..."

In the end, JP had agreed to the new plan. The wargames had provided them with a series of established positions, easily filled by his company.

The mortars had been moved forward as well, with some assistance. Jessia and Andrew were hurriedly calculating drop points for the new locations, a task that would normally involve test rounds. With the Chechens about to appear, though, they couldn't take the chance, so the first shots dropped by the mortars wouldn't necessarily have the precision they normally would.

Jessia did promise not to drop any rounds on the bunkers.

===============================

"Multiple sources. Tracking on sensors 211-alpha, 256-delta, 194-echo - pretty much the whole hillside has a signal of some strength," Sergeant Theo Snow, Guerrin's S-2, reported, reading from his laptop. It was tied into the sensor net Vanner had had laid down. The feeds varied from fuzzy to crystalline, depending on the age of the sensor and which generation it was.

"I can see that," snapped JP, still peering through the binoculars. "Can you give me something useful from all that?"

"One moment, sir. I'll see if I can filter it out a bit."

The clacking of keys came from Snow's corner of the bunker, then: "I can track them individually on foot and also the vehicles."

"Think you can pull course and speed?"

"Easily, sir." More clacking. "Downloading to your BFT. Continuous updates." He didn't mention that the apps were already uploaded to the BFT and just needed activation. Nice touch on the codework. Snow admired good hacking, no matter the source, and intended to 'borrow' as much code as he could before they left. On second thought - any man who could whistle up a company of Rangers, probably wouldn't think twice about squashing anyone who played fast and loose with his computers. Right, better get permission.

Sure enough, the small plasma screen suddenly displayed dozens, no, hundreds of blood-red tracks, indicating hostiles - or at least unidentified intruders. By tapping on any icon, Guerrin could 'zoom in' on it, bring up a projection of a probable course, see where it had been, and more.

"Good job, Snow. Now, if we could predict their exact track down the valley, we'd be in the clover."

"I think I can do something like that for you."

Clack. Clack. He accessed another app. "Done, sir. You should have an icon on your tablet now, a little running figure?"

Guerrin examined the screen. "Got it."

"Tap that once, then tap any hostile icon. Based on known direction, speed, and terrain, the system will compute the most likely path. It allows for obstacles as well. Sir? Those coders? Any chance of getting one or two for our own?"

"Not unless you're willing to marry her," Guerrin chuckled. He tried it. A dark red line extended from the current location, down the slope and into the valley. "And the pink cone is...?"

"A probability zone, sir."

"And that means what, Sergeant?" His BFT wasn't as capable, or large, as Snow's laptop.

"Ah, well, since humans are, individually, highly unpredictable, the program quickly reaches the limits of accuracy. Once that point is reached, probability takes over and the possible track becomes wider and wider. Hence a cone, instead of a discrete line."

"It narrows again, further down the slope."

"Which track, sir?"

"Echo three."

"Let me look - okay, I think I can explain. See this feature?" Snow pointed to his screen, which was necessarily larger and gave better resolution.

"Yes."

"That's a small stream. It's narrow, but deep. The system knows that there are only a few good fording points, so it tends to track towards those points."

"What if this guy doesn't find the ford?"

A shrug. "Then he gets wet, sir. The problem is, we're up against the limits of probability. Computers are logical, they have to be; humans, inherently, aren't."

"Let's turn that function off, then."

"Just tap the hostile icon again. It will revert."

Tap. "That's better. Just knowing where these pricks are is a huge advantage."

"True, sir."

"Guerrin to platoon leaders." The frequency-hopping radio automatically shifted to the appropriate channel. "We have confirmation on enemy forces. Hold fire until range falls below two hundred meters. I've been told a death's-head emblem will appear above each target on your BFTs at that point. Someone's got a sense of humor."

"First, confirm."

"Second, roger."

"Third, understood."

"Guerrin to mortars."

"Mortars, Mahona here." Jessia's rich contralto filled the radio, a pleasant change from the usually gruff voices of his Rangers.

"Are you receiving the same feed we are?"

"Position of tangoes? Yes."

"Are they in range yet?"

"Forward elements are within optimal range. Rear elements are a little more problematical; I would prefer to hold fire until they are all over the crest and at least halfway down the slope."

Guerrin looked at the screen, considering. That would bring the closest Chechens to about three hundred meters, if they kept the same speed and spacing. "Acknowledged. Just make sure you tell us when you're going to open up on 'em!"

He could hear her answering grin. "No worries, captain. We'll call you first. Estimate five minutes from now."

"Roger, out."

More waiting. At least the end - or the beginning - was in sight. Felt more like a video game, though.

===============================

Mike was tired of waiting, too.

Not that he couldn't live without combat ops - hell, he'd retired, once upon a time! - but this was different. Not only had he, albeit indirectly, brought this potential disaster down on the Keldara; not only had he given the final approval to the plan that sent virtually the entire fighting population of the valley hundreds of kilometers north; and not only was he relying on 'borrowed' troops; but now this!

"If you go forward, I go too."

"Listen to me, you stubborn bitch! Your place is here, in the caravanserai or with your Family, not on the front line!"

"I am the Kildaran -"

"Not yet, you're not."

"We are betrothed! By the customs of the Keldara, with the handfasting ceremony complete, you have accepted me as your bride. Since you are the Kildar, your bride is the Kildaran. Therefore, I am the Kildaran and my place is by your side as your lead our people into battle."

Seeing a loophole, he leapt.

"Ah-ha! But I am NOT leading our people, am I? This battle is being fought by a company of United States Army Rangers, right? As such, I am simply going forward to ensure that the interests of the Keldara are adequately protected, and maybe lend a little expertise."

"Then why are you in your battle armor? And why do you carry Culcanar?" She pointed to the massive, ancient battle-axe that was slung across his back.

Shit. He knew he should have waited to pick it up.

Thinking fast, he answered, "Father Kulcyanov is allowing me to wield it as a symbol of the position of Kildar."

"And does Father Kulcyanov know this?"

"The point, Katrina, is that I have a place in this battle, if only as an observer. You don't. End of story."

"It has been foreseen," croaked a voice.

Both Mike and Kat whirled around. They were shocked to see Mother Lenka standing in the doorway to the conference room; she rarely came up to the caravanserai proper, and never ventured into the side devoted to the militia.

Kat recovered first. "What has been foreseen, Mother Lenka?"

Her thin, old voice cut through them both. "That you will accompany him, constantly, through all of his days in the Valley."

Smugly, Kat turned back to Mike. "You see? I must come with you."

"Mother Lenka -" began Mike, desperately.

"There can be no argument, Kildar. The Goddess has granted me a vision. Katrina is not to be separated from you, from the day you return to the Valley to the day you leave. Her destiny is intertwined with yours, as surely as the grapevines are tangled in the vineyard." She coughed. Katrina moved to support her, but she waved her off. "I must finish this, child. You will save him and hold him forever even though you may lose him."

"I don't understand, Mother Lenka," said Kat, plaintively.

"You shall. In time." Without another word, the old, old woman turned and walked away from the couple. With a start, Mike realized just how old she truly was, and what a heavy burden she carried.

"So," Kat said, smiling smugly.

"So what? You think I'm going to listen to that crazy old bat?"

Katrina's eyes flashed fire. "Michael! You do NOT speak of the High Priestess as an-an-an- old bat!!"

"Kidding, I'm kidding!"

"Then let's go!" She was already turned and moving before he spoke again.

"Whoa! Not so fast. Battle rattle and armed, got it? Short and long arms."

"Yes, Michael. Five minutes!" And, like a flash, she was off.

"No grenades!" he called after her. He'd seen her shoot; fine. Throwing a grenade?

Vanner poked his head in the doorway a moment later. "Problems, Kildar?"

"Oh. My. God. You have no idea."

"Who did you stick riding herd on the Mice?"

"Close. Mine's a redhead."

"Four Mice to one redhead. Hmm. Close. Call it even?"

"We'll see as the day goes on. I've got a feeling about this..."

"I get them all the time. Seeing eyes in the floors and walls. Then I find out we're missing four hundred meters of fiber optic cable, and I really begin to worry."

"Yours don't play with grenades. And guns. And insist on being your shield maiden, do they?"

"Well, no, but..."

"I think I win this round. Now, let's get to work."

===============================

Tahan motioned the ZIL-E forward, over the ridge. It was the last vehicle. The most critical, he had chosen to deploy all his men forward to ensure its survival. His wave of fighters would roll across the fertile valley like a tide, scouring it of anything living, before allowing the cleansing fire of Allah to rain down upon it.

"Forward for glory! Forward for the Emir! Forward for Allah!" Tahan's shout echoed from the lips of his mujahideen, breaking into a run down the remainder of the slope.

The massive, six-wheeled transport rumbled along, diesel engines pounding powerfully. The driver, a teenager named Qutaybah, had wrestled the machine through the mountain passes with surprising skill, given that he had never controlled anything more powerful than a moped before.

He seemed to have a knack for maneuvering through the treacherous snow and ice, so, as his reward, Tahan had permitted him the honor of driving on this final leg.

He would have been better served finding a less tired driver.

The boulder on the slope ahead was partially concealed by a cluster of small birch saplings, just beginning to leaf. Qutaybah, seeing only the slender saplings, plowed straight into them.

The ZIL-E had a ground clearance of 0.85 meters. The boulder, when Guerrin measured it later, protruded 1.23 meters above the ground and extended who knew how far below.

In the Cave, and relayed to the Rangers, the data feed from the sensors showed the seven-thousand-kilogram vehicle was traveling at twenty-four KPH when it impacted, creating nearly five hundred thousand Newtons of force - enough, in other words, to gouge a thirty centimeter rip through the tough steel of the old beast, all the way back to, and through, the second axle and tossing it, like a dog with a sock, into the air.

Simple, Newtonian physics came into play. Transfer of inertia. An object at rest tends to stay at rest until acted on by an outside force. F=MA. All that energy had to go somewhere.

Qutaybah never stood a chance. While the body of the ZIL-E had survived years in virtual exile, the framework holding the driver's chair wasn't nearly as sturdy. With a wrench, lost under the deafening screech of rending metal, it tore free from its braces, slamming forward into the layered glass-and-plastic windscreen.

Ribs, hips, spine, and skull all shattered, the soft organs they protected turned into paste virtually instantaneously, spattering the interior of the cab in Qutaybah Red.

The scream of tortured metal halted the running mujahideen in their tracks. Turning almost as a man, they faced a horrific scene. Their weapon of holy vengeance was - was it destroyed? Surely Allah wouldn't permit that to happen!

None of them had ever heard of Murphy.

===============================

The order to open fire hung on Guerrin's lips as he watched the disaster unfold. The swarms of men charging down the valley had suddenly frozen in place, statue-like. Easy pickings for his Rangers. As he watched, the other trucks, noting the lack of movement, slowed to a stop as well.

Even better.

Despite the fact that men were climbing out of the trucks, it was still going to be oh so easy to pick them off. The range was little more than four hundred meters now.

A few muj started toward the crashed ZIL-E.

Then he had a nasty idea.

"Mortars!"

"Go."

"I need you to retask! I need you to lay Willie Pete all around the ZIL-E to keep those men away from the payload!" Willie Pete, White Phosphorous, was generally used to produce smoke prior to a ground assault. It burned fiercely on virtually any surface but was notably frightening when applied to bare flesh.

Water wouldn't extinguish the flame; it would, in fact, intensify it. And, best yet, the smoke it produced was toxic after only a brief exposure. In short, it was a gift that kept on giving.

"Willie Pete?" answered Sivula. Guerrin could hear Jessia in the background, shouting in Georgian, presumably changing the loads.

"Yes - we need to keep those bastards away from the ZIL-E without destroying it. The way they're acting, it's got to be carrying the nuke."

"Sir, yes sir!"

"Ready to fire," announced Jessia.

"Fire at will - and keep 'em coming."

"Shot over." The Forward Observer, Adelaida Shaynav, radioed back, even as Guerrin passed the word to his platoons. His BFT flashed with the warning simultaneously, broadcast from the Cave.

Seconds later, he heard, "Command, splash over."

"Splash, out." The report was repeated down the line again.

There was a whistling, and an explosion a hundred fifty meters upslope. Clouds of white smoke rose in the wind.

The FO was already calling back. "Drop one fifty."

Another whistle. This round was downslope by seventy meters and east by fifty. A crosswind may have caught it.

"Up fifty, west fifty."

A third whistle. This round exploded ten meters away from the side of the wrecked truck.

"Fire for effect, repeat, fire for effect. Over."

"Fire for effect, out."

Now, the whistling was nearly continuous. A round would soar overhead, impact and explode, spraying its toxic contents for meters around the truck. Then, within three or four seconds, another round would do the same. Again. And again.

The first muj burned without ever knowing what was happening. Their screams could be heard as they dropped to the ground, clothes and flesh smouldering and belching smoke. Only a few thought to roll, hoping to extinguish the flames.

None thought to run uphill, out of the box of death and away from the incoming fire. Some, though, ran downhill, undoubtedly gravity-assisted, but it was the fastest way out of the deadly cloud.

"Bravo Company, fire at will!"

The massed fire of the company seemed, at first, to go unnoticed considering the unceasing barrage. Tahan was driving his men toward the ZIL-E; all he could think of was retrieving the weapon. But when the muj next to him suddenly dropped, clutching his leg, he became aware of the rifle fire.

Realizing that approaching the ZIL meant almost certain death, and faced with a threat from his rear, Tahan reacted shockingly well. Somewhere inside, he found a core of strength, telling him not to panic, to follow his orders. Fight as your enemy fights and let him with the greater faith prevail. The voice sounded like Ibrahim's.

"Form a perimeter! Return fire! The infidels are attempting to thwart the will of Allah!" He pointed in the direction of the greatest fire, unheeding of the danger. He knew that the infidels shot the leaders first, but for those moments he knew no fear, only courage and determination.

He prayed it would last long enough.

The invocation of Allah's name was enough seize their attention. Raggedly at first, then with greater and greater assurance, the would-be army of the Emirate opened up with their weapons.

Most carried some version of the venerable AK-47, the weapon of choice for most insurgent groups. Dependable, simple, rugged, it was the Model-T of automatic rifles.

A few carried the more accurate AK-74, despite it throwing a smaller round downrange. It didn't matter, though, as they almost universally used the 'pray and spray' method favored by Islamic extremists the world over. Ibrahim's hard-fought training vanished in an instant.

Seeing his men firing blindly, Tahan gave his second, fairly brilliant command. "Forward! Find the infidels and slay them as they hide!" With a howl, his men resumed their charge down the valley.

It took a few moments for the Rangers to adjust their fire to the new threat, moments that some didn't have.

"Command, Alpha Two! They're headed right at us!" Guerrin was surprised by the voice on the comm - why was Portena reporting in for First Platoon? Something must have happened to the chain of command - did the LT buy it already?

"Alpha Two, hold tight. We'll get you some support." Switching channels: "Alpha actual, command, report."

Silence.

"Alpha actual, report."

More silence.

Snow reported, "System's reporting that his pad is still active, sir. He should be receiving us. Either he's bought it or he's too busy to answer. His comms ought to be -"

"Well, we can't take too much time now for that." Hop channels again. "Mortars, adjust mission to close support - fragmentation rounds!" Hop. "All squads, duck and cover! Frags incoming! Danger close!"

"Adjusting fire."

They'd anticipated this potential problem in their planning. 'Human wave' attacks were a staple in the region; Iraq and Iran had practically perfected them as an art form during their eight-year war, and many of the current Islamic leadership had cut their teeth during that conflict. So, using the known positions of the bunkers, they had created coordinates and codes for each one.

"First grouping ten rounds frag, set for infantry, open, India X-Ray Two Four."

"Roger, India X-Ray Two Four. Shot Over."

"Alpha Two, Command. Shot out."

The whistling sound was followed by a different, sharper crump! as the anti-personnel round detonated. Essentially an oversized fragmentation grenade, the shrapnel would shred anyone within its range. The Keldara used 120mm mortars, some of the largest available. The results were... impressive.

The hard-charging Chechens, however, had already largely passed through the pre-selected target. Only the trailing two were hit by the fragments, one dropping dead, a chunk of metal lodged in his skull, the other peppered with jagged metal shards, though not killed. He fell to the ground, clutching at now non-existent kidneys, AK forgotten.

The other Chechens were out of the blast radius and never even noticed their comrades' fall. Firing wildly on full auto, the torrent of fire forced even the combat veteran Rangers to take cover behind their bunkers' walls. Alpha One and Three, on either side, attempted to shift fire to support the besieged bunker, but they had their own portion of the raid to deal with.

===============================

Tomran was a seasoned fighter. He'd fought continuously against the Russians since the disintegration of the Soviet Union. He'd seen dozens, hundreds, of his comrades killed over the years. Yet he'd passed through the battles with hardly a scratch. "I am invincible!" he would claim to the new recruits. They viewed him alternately as one touched by Allah, and a blow hard. Under Ibrahim's watchful eye, though, he was most humble and quiet.

Not to say that the years of almost-unending combat hadn't taken its toll. Battling the forces of the Lesser Satan might be his passion, his calling, but it didn't pay well. He was reminded of this frequently by his various wives - Malak, Adara, Hana', and Dahab.

"Tomran, the butcher needs to be paid."

"Tomran, you are never home."

"Tomran, the children need you."

Tomran, Tomran, Tomran! They didn't understand that he was fighting so his children could live in a Paradise on Earth. Neither did his on-and-off employer, a godless Russian merchant named Edouard.

He promised that, after fighting for the Emir, he would return home. He swore upon his honor that, win or lose, he would return after the Emir had finished with him.

So, he volunteered for mission after mission, extending his stay. He'd even volunteered for this insanity. Though, now, with mortar shells falling and rounds whistling past him, he wasn't quite as enthusiastic...one had to live to spend one's pay, after all.

===============================

Specialist Jason Terry had survived two tours in the Sandbox. He was the epitome of 'cool under fire', never seeming to be aware of the fury of battle swirling around him. He simply pounded round after round downrange.

This was supposed to be an easy duty, this trip to Georgia.

Crack.

Women and beer.

Crack.

Maybe some patrolling.

Crack.

They were backups, for Chrissake!

Crack.

They weren't supposed to be on the front!

Crack.

Well, only one thing for it.

Crack. Crack.

Kill 'em all.

Crack.

Let God sort 'em out.

Crack.

===============================

"Command to Third Actual."

"Go, Command." Lieutenant Tom DuPont commanded Third Platoon, kept in reserve for reinforcements.

"I need two squads to support First Platoon's line; Hughes might be out of it."

"Roger, out." Damn. Darren Hughes, First's platoon leader, had been a friend for years. Switching to the platoon frequencies, DuPont called, "Diffenderfer!"

"Sir!" Master Sergeant William Diffenderfer was DuPont's Platoon Sergeant, responsible for the day-to-day organization and activities of the Platoon. Now a career NCO, he was in his early 40's, a bit old for the typical Master Sergeant. He'd joined the Army out of high school, just in time to serve in the First Persian Gulf War, but had separated after serving his four-year hitch. After 9/11, though, he had reenlisted. His troops loved and feared him, as they should a good platoon sergeant, and rumor had it that a promotion to First Sergeant was in the pipeline. He'd become even more of a hardass in the last few months to impress the higher-ups.

"Take two squads and reinforce Alpha's line."

"Brooks! Sabasteanski!" The two Staff Sergeants looked up. "I've got a job for you..." The smile on his face would have scared lesser men shitless, but these were Army Rangers. They ate danger for breakfast.

That didn't mean they didn't want to puke when they got 'volunteered' for special duty in the middle of a firefight with artillery rounds raining down.

===============================

It was only moments before the two squads were emplaced and firing. Sergeant Brooks' squad was a Heavy Weapons squad, hauling around two MG240s and one of the new, still-experimental M60Es. They took position on Alpha's flank, enabling them to fire obliquely into the attackers. The furious rush began to slow.

===============================

When he heard the deeper tones of the machine guns, Tomran suddenly had second thoughts about the whole assault.

Too late.

===============================

Crack.

"That's a kill!"

Crack.

===============================

Irfan Jarrar was a driver. That is to say, he knew how to change gears without burning out the clutch and could usually be counted on to stay on the road. He had been tried on the Tatras, but the heavy, primitive trucks were too much for him to control consistently. He was moved to a PAZ which, though heavier, was substantially more advanced. For one thing, it had seat belts, which the two dozen muj found of great comfort on the sometimes-treacherous drive. Two fuel tanks. Power steering. And heavy-duty power brakes. These were Soviet-era brakes, admittedly, with all the attendant woes, but still...

These were used extensively through the mountains and abused more on the final slope into the valley. When he tried to apply them on the flat, shells exploding around him, rounds cratering the heavy windscreen, his foot went straight to the floor with no effect.

The PAZ rumbled along at a steady twenty KPH - he'd had sense enough to take his foot from the accelerator - and he was running out of room. Now, from the valley floor, he could see the low bunkers ahead.

Martyrdom looked like a positive career choice.

"Allahu Akbar!"

===============================

Second Platoon's bunkers, arrayed to the west of First Platoon, were much lower to the ground. The eastern side, First's side, was built atop a shallow layer of bedrock. Shattered though the rock was from the crushing weights of the glaciers that had scored the valley, it was still virtually impervious to entrenching tools. Instead, First had been able to scrounge enough boulders to build fairly solid, if primitive-looking, structures.

On the western side, though, the subterranean rock was much, much deeper, covered by fertile soil. Second's bunkers, therefore, were much more traditionally built, which had made their Lieutenant, Charlie Igo, much, much happier . Five feet deep into the ground, eight feet wide and ten feet long, they had a roof of stout timbers, covered with soil, which was barely a foot higher than the surrounding ground.

This saved the men of third squad.

When the PAZ hit the front edge of the bunker, it hopped up onto the roof instead of impacting it directly. The tires exploded, the front axle shattered, the Rangers were showered with dirt, and the timbers were pushed back a full meter before it shuddered to a stop, engine still running.

Nobody spoke for a moment.

"Typical raghead driver," finally muttered Private Scott Plummer after catching his breath and making sure he hadn't shit himself. The timbers groaned.

"What are you waiting for?" yelled Sergeant Pierce. "A fucking invitation?"

"Sarge, I don't know if you noticed, but the door's gone."

It was true. The PAZ, weighing in at well over five thousand kilos, very effectively shifted the roof back, covering the hole they'd used as an entryway. Nobody was getting out that way. Nor could they take advantage of the gap the PAZ had opened at the front of the bunker. At 2.44 meters – a hair over eight feet - wide, the PAZ very effectively sealed the hole above them.

"Doesn't look like we're going anywhere." PFC Will Chapman bitched.

"Bullshit! Chapman, get on the horn, let the Lieutenant know that we're gonna be delayed. Plummer, you, Gordon, and Manchester break out the entrenching tools and make us a new exit. The rest of you, see if you can make firing holes under that dammed truck!"

Footfalls above.

"Fuck that, fire up into the truck! Now now now!"

===============================

The fog of war.

Clausewitz's great aphorism for the uncertainty that accompanies even the most well-thought-out battle plan certainly applied.

Three tons of all-terrain bus and passengers should have, at all rights, smashed through the bunker of third squad, killing or injuring everyone inside and probably doing the same to all its passengers. If it was a Hollywood production, it would have immediately exploded into a massive fireball, incinerating anyone left alive - probably a terrified-looking driver, plus an unlucky short-time soldier below, and the luckless fellow who'd just found out he was going to be a father.

Cliché.

This was reality. Big impact, lots of dust and noise as the inertia was absorbed by the softer soil. No explosion. No collapse. And, thanks to the lunatic driving of the now-late Jarrar which forced his riders to wear their seatbelts, no major injuries among the passengers.

So, instead of a glorious martyrdom, the two dozen muj found themselves crashed - literally! - through the fortified lines of the infidels, unlike their unluckier comrades assaulting the opposite bunkers.

Perfect for causing a little mayhem.

The Rangers' fire, unexpected from below, only felled a pair of men before the others decided that outside would be a much healthier environment. One that promised easier targets, ones they could see.

Like the unattended door to a bunker.

===============================

"What the -"

The doors that were at the rear of Second Platoon's bunkers were little more than thin pieces of plywood. The idea was to simply stop the nearly constant wind, rather than any sort of security. Rounds from an AK-47 tore right through them.

Fourth squad was the first to face this rear-echelon assault. Through outrageous good fortune, not one man was killed by the initial attack, though three were hit badly. Leaving two men to maintain fire downrange at the visible threat, Sergeant Randy Gardner quickly changed the deployment to face the door.

"Pardue! Doughty! Cover the door! Dexter, be ready with those grenades!" A few seconds' pause, and: "Okay, Wiley, open it."

Standing with his back against the comfortingly solid dirt wall, Private Tom Wiley reached for the handle of the door. With a sharp tug, it pulled open, swinging away from him. He'd seen the shadows through the far too large holes that had appeared in the door. He took no chances and did as quickly as he could. It was much easier to see from dark to light than vice versa.

That was chance enough.

===============================

Fida Trebelsi was leading the charge toward the sunken door when it suddenly flung itself open.

"Allahu Akbar!" God Is Great! His finger tightened on the trigger as he burst into the relative darkness of the bunker.

===============================

The men on the far side of the bunker, Olsen and Winde, were cut down without even seeing Trebelsi. At this range, not even armor could help. Gardner didn't even blink. Soldiers died; it came with the job.

Most of his rounds, though, impacted harmlessly.

Not so the rounds from Pardue and Doughty. Two quick but aimed shots each. Pardue took the body shots; Doughty took head shots. All connected, decorating the two Chechens behind Fida with brains and blood.

Trebelsi fell.

Then Dexter donated a pair of grenades to the two stunned invaders, out beyond the doorway. They exploded seconds later, adding to the chaos. By then, Pardue and Doughty had taken down Trebelsi's followers and were moving toward the door.

A half-dozen muj had taken up positions in a line about twenty meters from the doorway, eschewing cover altogether, and were taking turns peppering it with rounds, spraying until their bolt clacked back empty then reloading.

Using the rough stairs as cover, Doughty and Pardue began to return fire.

Fog of war, indeed.

===============================

Most of the rest of the PAZ's passengers, disdaining the bunkers, barreled downfield toward what they had been told was their ultimate objective, the barely visible caravanserai.

"Captain."

Sergeant Snow caught Guerrin's attention.

"Yeah?"

"We've got leakers." He pointed to the screen, where a dozen red icons were moving steadily toward their position.

"How?"

"Bravo three isn't answering calls, Bravo four is under attack from the rear - they must have breached the line there."

"Good work, Snow. DuPont."

"Sir?"

"Got some leakers."

"On it, sir."

===============================

They were past the infidels!

Nothing stood between them and the women of the valley!

A dozen devoted followers of the Emir, they had been gathered up by Duqaq Nabulsi, another clear-thinking veteran of the Chechens' interminable wars against the Russians. "The infidels are weak!" he panted as he ran. "If we can capture - threaten - their women, we may divide their attention, take pressure off Tahan!"

Rallying his men to greater speeds, he didn't notice the first fall suddenly into the unplanted ground.

===============================

Corporal Simo Hayha was acknowledged as easily the best sniper Bravo Company had, possibly in the entire Division. He and his spotter, Specialist Billy Sing were on a slight rise forward of the HQ Platoon's position.

"Twelve hundred meters," reported Sing.

"Piece of cake," answered Hayha, prone behind his M107.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

The .50 caliber BMG rounds Hayha was using today were modified under the EXACTO program. A microprocessor and stabilizing fins had been added to each, allowing them greater range and accuracy. Hayha looked on them as cheating. On the target range, he used the standard BMG; out here, where accuracy meant lives, he bent to necessity and used the modified rounds.

===============================

It wasn't until the fourth man fell out of the loose formation and didn't get back up that Duqaq began to suspect something was amiss. By then, a small group of tents and other temporary buildings had become visible in the near distance. Antennas and vehicles were visible, too, making this a command position - and something worth disrupting, at least.

Duqaq looked back over his shoulder. They were at least as far from the fighting behind them as the tents before them, and Allah favored those who took chances in His service.

"Faster! Kill the unbelievers!"

===============================

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

===============================

Four followers remained with Duqaq. They were still four, maybe five hundred meters from their target. Maybe it was time to find some kind of cover.

"Down! Down!"

All four fell to the ground, trying desperately to find any hint of cover - a rock, a bush, anything.

===============================

"They've gone to ground."

"I see that."

CRACK.

"Target, four meters north, three east."

CRACK.

"Target, five meters north, six west."

CRACK.

===============================

"Ferran?"

Silence.

"Imad?"

Silence.

"Thabit?"

"Here, Duqaq."

"Mukhtar?"

Silence.

"What now, Duqaq?"

"Where are you, Thabit?"

"Behind a rock, and you Duqaq?"

"In a pool of water, beneath some water plants."

"What do we do now, Duqaq?"

"We wait. Unless you're ready to face Allah?"

"Not yet."

"Nor I."

===============================

"Target - damn."

"What?"

"They've found cover."

"Cover?"

"One's cowering behind a boulder - forget that one, I can't see any part except a bit of one sleeve. The other one's found a puddle and is burrowed into the mud."

"Give me that one."

"I can't even see him, just the disturbances on the surface -"

"Target!"

"Six meters south, five east. That's the center of -"

CRACK.

CRACK.

CRACK.

===============================

The first shot was long, thudding into the mud near the far end of the puddle. Duqaq held his ground.

The second shot splashed into the water a scant foot in front of him, the massive round passing through the water and splattering Duqaq with filth from the bottom.

He knew - knew - that the third round would be between the first two. If he was lucky, it would shatter his spine. If not, well, it could hit lower.

He jumped up.

For what it was worth, he was right. The third round would have killed him, probably slowly.

He didn't think about the fourth round.

===============================

CRACK.

"Target down. What about the last one?"

"I don't think he's going anywhere. Command, Nightwish. Threat neutralized. Twelve KIA, one pissing his pants."

"Ah, roger that Nightwish. Maintain position. Out."

Sing had to laugh. "He's not going anywhere soon."

"Nope."

===============================

Tahan's full frontal assault had failed. They'd taken out one bunker, and the PAZ had flattened another, but the squads from Third Platoon had made the difference. They couldn't cross the firing lanes without being torn to shreds, in either direction. Of the fifty or so men who survived the initial charge to close with the bunkers, fewer than twenty managed to pull back. Even fewer moved on the field. The Rangers targeted them as soon as they showed signs of life and sent them to discuss their fate with Allah.

Now, though, Tahan recalled an image from a smuggled American movie he had seen as a youth. It was old, black and white. Something called a 'Western'. But in it, what he remembered now, was when the would-be land thieves were being attacked by the natives, they had driven their wagons into a circle to create a defensive wall.

Well, he had wagons, of a sort. There were still five PAZ-672Gs. He'd worry about withdrawal later. If he couldn't take out the bunkers, there wouldn't be any men to withdraw.

He gave the necessary orders.

===============================

Master Sergeant Julio Portena of First Platoon had inherited command when Hughes went down from a single 'golden BB'. He couldn't fucking believe it. A ricochet, off not one but two scopes, a helmet, and then into Hughes' open mouth. Took him right through the C3-C4 juncture. Dead before he hit the ground.

A dozen years of experience had prepared him for the role, even if he didn't relish it. Now, he was keeping the withdrawing Chechens under observation while the men of his squad tended to their wounded.

"Command, Alpha Six."

"Go ahead."

"T'ey're trying to build a pocking barricade," reported the short, swarthy Sergeant.

"A barricade?"

"Yeah, out of t'eir trucks. Looks like t'ey're settling in for a while." Modder-pocker! We shoulda burned more of them! He kept this thought to himself; he frequently found himself on a very thin line with Command. If he wasn't a first-class armorer, he would've found a one-way ticket out of the Rangers years ago.

"Roger, Alpha Six. Maintain surveillance. Over."

"Roger. Out."

===============================

"Well, that'll make them easier to pin down," said a familiar voice. Guerrin turned to see the Kildar stride into the command bunker, followed closely by the single smallest Keldara -

Naah. He wouldn't have.

"Good afternoon, Captain," came the light voice of -

He did. Or, more likely, she did.

"Hello Kildar, Miss Devlich."

"So formal!"

Ignoring the byplay, Mike approached the tactical displays. "What's the situation?"

"They've made one fairly serious attempt at our lines, killed a platoon leader," said Guerrin. "Broke through in one place; that was more luck than skill. One of their buses crashed into a bunker, and they raised a little hell. But we've got them contained, with help from the mortars. Have to tell Mahona and Sivula that they did a hell of a job, by the way."

"And now?"

"They seem to be 'circling the wagons', as it were." He pointed to the display. "This is the take from the sensors - great little toys! - and you can see the vehicles with the men behind them."

Mike nodded. "Looks simple enough. Drop mortars on them until they're all in tiny little pieces, then mop up the remains."

"Not that easy," contradicted Guerrin. "See how close their barricade is to that big vehicle?"

"Yeah, so? Target-rich environment."

"I think Nielson was right; that's how they carried the nuke."

"Oh, shit."

"Right. So, if we drop mortars on the barricade -"

" - we risk detonating the nuke or, worse, spreading radioactive dust all around this end of the valley just about forever. We're going to have to do this the hard way?"

"Looks like. Unless you have a better idea?"

Mike thought briefly. "Maybe. Can you get me closer?"

"No problem. What do you have in mind?"

"Well..." Mike explained.

===============================

"Attention, soldiers of the Emirate!" The voice, in fairly accented Russian, came from speakers mounted on the roof of a large SUV. "We wish to discuss the situation with you! Send your leader forward!"

The message repeated in Arabic.

"It's a trap!" insisted Rafiq, Tahan's closest advisor and second-in-command. "The infidel always lies!"

"Then let him lie. We need time, Rafiq, to get into the ZIL and retrieve the weapon. Otherwise, our mission here is a failure, no matter how many infidels we kill."

"Tahan, what if he betrays you?"

"Then I go to serve Allah in Paradise. No more discussion. I will meet with him. But while I am meeting them, here's what I want you to do..."

===============================

Mike waited in the passenger seat of the Expedition.

A lone figure appeared around east side of the wall of vehicles. Middling height, olive skin, dark hair and the requisite 'freedom fighter' stubble. Clad in cast-off Russian Army fatigues, he seemed no more threatening than the immigrant who ran the ubiquitous corner stores in the West. Though, Mike admitted, they weren't usually waving a white flag.

Maybe in Detroit.

When the man was within twenty meters, Mike climbed down and called, "Close enough!"

He stopped.

"What do you wish to discuss?"

"I'd like to know who I'm talking to, first," said Mike.

"My name is Haroun Tahan," said the man. "I am the commander of this brigade."

"More like a company now," said the voice in Mike's ear. Guerrin was monitoring the conversation and any movements. Hayha was intent on Tahan, as well; one word, one move, and he'd be dropped.

"And who are you?" continued Tahan. "Are you the American who styles himself 'Kildar', or one of his lackeys?"

"I'm the man who's been sent to talk to you. That means we're not shooting at you. That should be enough for you for now."

"What do we have to talk about, dog?"

"Insults, Tahan?"

"Calling a dog a dog is no insult."

"Mmm, okay, we can play it that way if you like."

"He's trying to piss you off," said Guerrin.

"No shit, Sherlock," sub vocalized Mike before continuing, "We want to make you an offer. One time only."

"The only offer I will listen to is your choosing to die by the gun or by the finger of Allah."

"Sorry, that's not on the table. Did you know the Emir is dead?" he added, conversationally.

"Liar!"

"No, really. And his little Emirate? Just as dead."

"You lie! Filthy goat cock sucker!"

Who's pissed now? "And you want to know something amusing?" continued Mike, as if Tahan hadn't spoken. "It wasn't even the Keldara that killed Inarov. It was a booby-trap set by your pet genius, Ibrahim. Or should I say, pet sociopath, Kurt Schwenke?"

Tahan's face registered confusion even as he shouted, "Ibrahim is the most faithful of the Emir's followers!"

Mike allowed himself a laugh. "Damn, boy, he's got you fooled too! Ibrahim al-Jasir was a phantom, an illusion, a ghost, created by a master puppeteer to get you fools to do his bidding." Deliberately, Mike laid out the evidence against Schwenke, even over Tahan's increasingly incoherent screaming.

"He's sacrificed you, Tahan, you and your men," concluded Mike moments later. "He sent you here with a bomb while he made his escape. He's probably in Geneva by now, getting his own face back."

Silence. Maybe he'd actually touched a nerve.

"Here's the deal. Lay down your arms and leave, now, and we won't stop you." Mike didn't mention the messages to the Georgian and Russian ground forces that were poised to be dispatched.

"That's it? Lay down our weapons and leave? That's your deal?"

"Tahan, I promise you, if you don't take this offer, you won't live to regret it. You and the rest of your pitiful little 'brigade' will be fertilizer for the fields of the Keldara."

"You're wrong, jackal! It is you and your precious Keldara that shall perish! Allah has blessed our holy mission. He has decreed that you infidels shall burn for your sinful rejection of His holy words! No, I think not." He turned and began to walk away.

"Mike. Movement!"

"Tahan!" To Guerrin: "Where?"

Without stopping, Tahan called back, "What?"

"Last chance."

"Vehicles - coming around to the west. Looks like they're jeeps, something along those lines."

"Bombers. Hayha?"

Another voice. "Kildar?"

"Take 'em out."

"Your last chance, infidel," retorted Tahan.

"I warned you." Reaching over his shoulder, Mike took Culcanar from the harness on his back. In a single smooth motion, he sent the magnificent blade flying, end-over-end.

It struck Tahan vertically, directly below his neck, splitting his spine and very nearly bursting through his breastbone. He fell to the ground, dead instantly.

"Move!" Mike commanded the driver, Private John Walker. Standing on the running board, Mike clung to the roof post as the SUV accelerated. "I've got to get that axe back or Father Kulcyanov will have me as a sacrifice, Kildar or not!" Distantly, he was aware of five drab green jeep-like vehicles coming around the opposite side. No threat, a part of his mind determined, and dismissed them from thought.

Pulling even with the body, Mike reached down and snagged the handle of Culcanar. It came free easily, and Walker spun the SUV around and headed back toward the Rangers' lines.

===============================

CRACK.

"This is way too easy."

"Quit your bitching. Too easy, too hard. Too hot, too cold. Too big, too small. Bitch bitch bitch."

"Shut up and hand me another clip."

CRACK.

"That was a good one."

"Yeah. Did I ever tell you about that time in Kandahar...?"

CRACK.

===============================

"Hayha reports that all five vehicles have stopped."

"Let's make sure. Have Sivula drop a round or two on each. Wonder what kind of explosives they're packing?"

"Already on it. You should probably clear the area."

"Way ahead of you." Mike was back inside the perimeter now, Culcanar held out the window to keep the blood from staining the upholstery. He wasn't sure, but he thought that this Expedition belonged to the Devlich Family, and he really, really didn't need to piss off his future in-laws today.

"Good. Shot over."

The characteristic whistle of a mortar round came just a few seconds later, detonating only a few feet from a GAZ. The mortar's explosion was almost immediately dwarfed as the GAZ's deadly payload went up sympathetically.

"Whoa! Now, that's impressive! Okay, JP, we're behind the bunkers. Tell 'em the range is all theirs."

"Roger that, Kildar. First, Second, they're all yours. Kick ass and don't bother introducing yourselves."

===============================

It took the better part of an hour, but the Chechens' position was gradually reduced. The parked buses provided effective cover for some time, until Jessia thought to start walking her mortars from a position between the bunkers and the buses slowly north, toward the now-battered vehicles. Once dialed in, it was quick work to completely shred them with round after round of HE.

Once the cover was gone, it was only a matter of time. Tied as they were to defending the shattered ZIL, and deprived of even Tahan's leadership, the result was chaos. Some small groups took what cover they could, maintained some semblance of fire discipline, and held out for quite a while. Others, driven by a need for martyrdom, were cut down as they charged the bunkers at irregular intervals.

A few tried to withdraw, either on foot or in the remaining Tatras. Hayha dropped several them; Jessia, Andrew and the mortars accounted for the vehicles; and there was one more unpleasant surprise in the works.

Vanner's black boxes, the sensors, had all been equipped with a small C-4 charge to ensure their destruction in case of discovery by an enemy. It was a simple matter to send a 'detonate' signal to the appropriate sensor as a panicked Chechen entered its lethal range. While it would be a pain to emplace new ones, it certainly proved the charges' effectiveness.

As the more organized squads ran out of ammo, a few attempted to surrender, waving any white rag they could find. But many of the other Chechens, feeling this was a betrayal of their Emir and their faith, opened fire upon the surrendering groups. Soon, the smartest groups figured out that they were better off simply dropping to the ground and waiting, instead of drawing 'friendly' fire on themselves.

In the end, after the last fanatic was dispatched, there were about forty survivors spread across the entire field of battle. All were wounded to some degree, even though some showed no visible signs. Concussion from the mortar rounds caused serious internal damage to the brain and other organs.

By nightfall, there would be fewer still, as blood loss, shock, and the cold took their toll.

"And how many did you lose, Captain?" asked Mike, as he and JP made their way toward the battlefield.

"Twelve KIA, including a platoon leader, another nineteen WIA, but between my medics and your Dr. Arensky I think they'll all pull through."

"Sorry about your casualties," said Mike. "We'll do right by them, I promise you."

"So am I, Kildar, but it's a good mission. I hate to lose one, but, hell, if any of us wanted to die in our beds we wouldn't be Rangers."

"Truth."

"What do you want done with these?" JP gestured to the prisoners, guarded by a squad of Rangers, looking alternately sullen and despairing.

"Who is senior?" asked Mike of the Chechens.

There was a brief murmured conversation, then finally one said, "I am."

"And you are...?"

"Mahar. I have served the cause for -"

"Mahar, let's be clear on this: I don't give a flying fuck how long you have served your cause or what you've done. All I need to know is, will the others listen to you?"

"Yes," he said, grudgingly.

"Good. Then here's the deal. You lost. Your mission here is done. If you want to go home, I won't stop you, but I won't help you. You take what you have, minus any weapons, and you walk. Russia is that way."

"And if we choose not to walk? If we resist you?"

Mike shrugged. "I have a backhoe."

===============================

"You're just letting them go?" demanded Katrina as the dejected Chechens trudged north, escorted by DuPont's Third Platoon.

"Yep."

"They are enemies of the Keldara! They would have slaughtered the entire valley!"

"Yep."

"And you let them go?"

Quietly, Mike said, "How far do you think they'll get? No weapons, no food, across, what, twenty kilometers of mountains? Oh, and did I mention the little message I sent Umarov?"

"General Umarov?"

"Yeah. Seems he just got an anonymous tip that there's a group of illegal immigrants from Russia raising a little hell in this corner of the country. He's sending a battalion to round them up. And, just in case Umarov misses, Chechnik's getting a notice of his own."

"Ah," smiled Katrina, purely evilly.

A shout from the ZIL caught Mike's attention. It was Vanner, waving his arm.

"What's up, Pat?" Vanner had taken a Geiger counter and was closely inspecting the entire vehicle, just in case.

"We've got nothing."

"That's good, right?"

"No, Kildar, it's not. Even undamaged, I ought to be picking up traces. I've got nothing more than natural background radiation."

"Could the body of the truck be blocking it?"

"Possible, but if it was blocking the radiation, it would also have absorbed some and become radioactive itself."

"I take it, it isn't?"

"Not a bit."

"Something's fishy here. We ought to take a closer look. Not you, Kat!"

He could almost hear her pout.

===============================

"That sure looks like it," commented Mike. They were in the passenger compartment of the ZIL, looking at a long, sturdily built wooden box.

"It matches the others we've recovered," agreed Vanner. "Still not getting anything." He reached out to open it, to have his hand slapped away by Mike. "What the fuck?"

"Don't. Booby trap."

Vanner paled.

"Better get our version of a bomb squad up here. If our buddy Kurt left a surprise in there..." He didn't need to elaborate.

===============================

"Rocks."

"Rocks?" asked Mike.

"Rocks. That's all," replied Vanner.

"So this whole thing, all those men -"

"Were just a diversion," finished Nielson.

"Motherfucker!"

"It's actually clever of him. The Rangers paid a heavy price in men and ammo and energy; they're going to need serious R&R before they're any use for combat again. The Tigers are battered to shit from the speed run back, and exhausted as well. On top of that, we're almost entirely out of the field; how effective can any of our searches be right now?"

The Combat Staff had gathered at the caravanserai again. Part of Vanner's Intel squad was combing the battlefield for any information they could gather, but they weren't hopeful.

"Where the fuck is Schwenke, then?" asked Adams, who had finally made it back. He alone was standing. For some reason, he'd refused a seat.

Nobody had an answer.
CHAPTER 43

Near the Georgia-Azerbaijan Border; A Road to Tbilisi; The Caravanserai; Tbilisi

April 14

Ibrahim, dressed as a Russian Army Major, and his men were stopped in Ikinzhi-Shikhly, a small Azerbaijani village about three kilometers south of the Georgian border on the M1. It wasn't for a much-needed rest, though the men's nerves were on edge, kept in check only by the reassuring presence of their leader. It was simply time to change uniforms again.

Their Russian Army uniforms had served them well through Azerbaijan, speeding them through the scattered checkpoints. The two nations had experience a warming trend in their relations over the past few years, and the sight of Russian nationals, even those in uniform, raised no suspicion and, more importantly, no hostility from the Azerbaijani, whether military, militia, farmer, or peasant . Now, though, they were about to cross into Georgia, and the situation would change.

Not only were they getting closer and closer to the pit of vipers they were set to exterminate, but, complicating the issue, Russia and Georgia had recently cooled a violent border conflict. Russian Army troops, therefore, would not be a welcome sight at the Georgian border, no matter what their faked papers might say. Instead, they donned the uniforms of the shadowy, officially outlawed paramilitary/political party, the Mkhedrioni.

The Mkhedrioni, 'Horsemen' or 'Knights', had been active in the early days of Georgian independence in the battles against the Ossetians and the Abkhazians in the early 1990's. They had supported, sometimes brutally, the then-President Shevardnadze as he consolidated his power in 1993, even being named the "Georgian Rescue Corps" for their actions. But their Russian-mafia-influenced methods had landed their leadership in prison, and their organization was outlawed in 1995.

They never quite disappeared, however, living in the fringes of Georgian society. While membership was still prohibited, there was a lingering fondness for them, especially in the northwest and central regions of the country. But even here, in the far southeast, they were likely to be ignored, if not actively supported. It was a perfect cover.

"Ibrahim, I have a question." This was from Faruq, a middle-aged man who had remained close to Ibrahim through the entire journey.

"Yes?" The smile on Ibrahim's face was totally guileless, a man at peace with whatever he had to do next.

"Not to doubt your planning, Ibrahim, but it seems that we have taken overlong in our mission. Should we not be closer to our destination?"

"Shai'tan has laid traps for us, Faruq, and we must be cautious and circumspect to avoid them." The djinn-like desert blue eyes glinted.

"Surely now that we are on the cusp of victory, we can accelerate our progress?"

"Soon, Faruq, we shall strike a crippling blow upon the enemies of the Emirate. But we have not achieved victory yet; if we succumb to Shai'tan's guiles, we may still fall short of our goals."

"As you say, Ibrahim, so is it true. Yet I would be more than human if I did not admit to feeling some anxiety, an eagerness to complete our mission and return to the heart of the Emirate." No such fear showed in his face, belying his words.

"What, then, do you suggest, Faruq?" asked Ibrahim in a dangerously reasonable tone.

Quietly, so as not to be heard by the others, Faruq answered, "Allow me to continue the mission, while you return to the Emir and stand by his side at this, his hour of greatest need." He smiled, as if genuinely offering a way out of the mission, a way without consequences or repercussions, revealing his feeling that he held this power.

"You would have the glory of the destruction of our enemies?" Ibrahim hissed. "Or are you planning to betray us to our enemies? It occurs to me that one like you, bringing information such as you have, would be welcomed - celebrated, even - by the forces of darkness!" With these few words, the battlefield turned. The next few would decide the man's fate.

Backing away, Faruq's voice rose. "No, Ibrahim, neither! I am loyal, I wish only to serve the Emir!"

"That is what you intend! You would betray your Emir, betray your faith, betray Allah!" Ibrahim's impassioned voice rose too, drawing the attention of the other men. They needed to witness the fate of the false warrior among them.

He dropped his hands to his sides briefly, then raised them again as if warding off a spectre, pushing Faruq away in spirit, faith, and a Brother of Allah. Exasperation, even disappointment, colored his face, not anger.

"Go, then!" He pushed Faruq roughly on the shoulders.

"Go, I say!" he repeated, pushing him again. Faruq, stumbling backward, fell. Laughter, barely suppressed, echoed from the men he had only moments before he called his brothers.

"You're mad!" he screeched from the ground. adrenalin flooding his veins, masking the too-rapid beating of his heart.

"A madman am I?" howled Ibrahim, giving proof to Faruq's words. "I am but a loyal son of Allah, enraged by deceit and lies! Go! You have no more place here!" Ibrahim dropped his arms dramatically, waving them at the ground before him. "Go in peace, while you are yet able. Allah's punishment shall surely follow you along the path you have chosen. No man may outrun Allah's wrath."

Scrambling to his feet, Faruq continued to back away, more calmly now, forced though it sounded. "Listen to me!" he cried to the men, now gathered in a loose circle.

"The Emir never trusted Ibrahim fully - and with good reason! Look! Hear what he is saying! Wahid!" he said, turning to one of the older warriors. "You have known me for years! Have I ever -"

Faruq had passed every test of the Emir. Pain, he had endured stoically, and deprivation, and hunger, and thirst. He had proven his loyalty, and his worthiness, to the Emir on repeated occasions. He had earned privileges, food, women, for his deeds. He had even proven his ultimate loyalty by inflicting death on several of these women at the Emir's order, though he had grown fond of many. For these reasons, he had been chosen as Ibrahim's minder.

But the pain he had endured, and inflicted, was as nothing compared to what he felt now. He was interrupted by a massive spasm as his limbs were seized by excruciating pain. The muscles in his arms and legs contracted violently, repeatedly, ripping tendons, exploding joints, wrenching a most unmanly scream from his throat.

The human body is a magnificent machine. Faced with unendurable pain, the brain attempts to block it by releasing as many endorphins as possible. The chemical flooded his system, allowing him a chance to breathe and gasp out, "What is happening?"

The man who had murdered him spoke. There were no bullets, no razors, no red-hot pokers or pliers to peel away the skin. "Shai'tan is claiming you. You have turned your back on the faith, Allah can no longer protect you," said Ibrahim, quietly. "The wages of sin, Faruq."

Ibrahim's lying hands made a double pass at the ground, palms down. A sign, usually used by the mullahs, of a final judgment that brokered no argument.

"I - have - not - sinned!" he managed to squeeze out. His breathing was shallow now, painful. The endorphins had done their best, but the other drugs in his system took over. His skin felt as though fiery needles were poking him. He lacked the knowledge, but it was as the stings of a million fire ants. His heartbeat faster, and faster still, beyond the limits of human endurance.

His capillaries constricted, arching his body off the ground. His eyes flared red as the fragile vessels within burst, and tears of blood dripped from the corners of his eyes. With shocking quickness, his vision faded to blackness. "I - cannot - see!" His eyes, constricted by the muscles around them, burst.

The men watching, mesmerized, vomited. The judgment of Allah!

"As greed has blinded you, so too has Shai'tan. Soon you shall burn forevermore."

"What - have - you - done?"

Ibrahim leaned close to the dying man's ears.

"Eliminated a problem," whispered Schwenke. "No more."

These last words went unheard. The cocktail he had created for him proved even more efficient than he had dared to hope, as the fatty tissues liquefied. Faruq's body seemed to collapse on itself as the pyretic bacteria, encouraged by the chemicals injected with them, produced enough internal heat to set the liquefying puddle ablaze.

Ibrahim, the djinn-eyed, the devout, the chosen one of Allah, stood silently and watched the execution of Allah's wrath.

Inwardly, Schwenke smiled. The overwhelming smells of burning pork reminded him of how long it had been since he was last able to indulge himself. Eggs, and bacon, he thought. Perhaps a woman, no, two, afterward. A mother and daughter. To protect the other, each would do much to please him, before he killed them. The only question, the only troubling thought, would be who to kill first.

===============================

The 'pass' between Bezta and Georgia was hardly more than a farmer's track. Unpaved and almost certainly abandoned, it followed the path of a river through a meandering valley until turning abruptly south, and upwards, a couple kilometers from the Georgian border. The good news was, there was no border patrol or, for that matter, marked border. Only their GPS informed them of the crossing.

They ended up spending the night in the village of Oktomberi, in a boarding house that reminded Cottontail of Yakov's brothel in Alerrso, down to the fleas and bedbugs. She started scratching as soon as she saw the room. When morning came, she was eager to depart as quickly as possible.

The struggle for the Keldara to return to the valley, and the battle, were picked up in snatches along the road. But the news that Schwenke wasn't among the dead, and that his bomb was still missing, stopped them completely. Katya had never seen that look on J's face before, a mix of fear and respect. But for whom?

J grabbed the sat phone and immediately made direct contact with Vanner, his Intel counterpart.

"No clue," answered Vanner. "He could be anywhere. We're trying to figure out if he's gone to ground, ran away, or is planning something else."

"I may have some insight into that," supplied J. "We're on our way back. When we return, I think we'll need to discuss the situation."

"Agreed. Any idea when you'll get here?"

"Tomorrow, I would think," said J, vaguely.

"Good enough. See you soon."

"Tomorrow? We could get there by midnight!" insisted Cottontail. "I can take over, if you're tired," she offered.

"I have my reasons, padawan." And he refused to say anything else for a long time. She played with her nails and the valves set into her palms. She was determined that her little tricks would work flawlessly when needed. Closing her eyes, she tried to feel for an up-link but received only static. She shut down before the migraine had a chance to gain any strength.

It wasn't until they had arrived in Tbilisi that he spoke again. "We are not going back to the Valley tonight," he said, pulling into a hotel parking lot.

"Why not?" asked Cottontail. "Pardon me, master, but it sounded like you would be able to help them, that you have an idea."

"I do," replied J. "But it will wait." He smiled, as if to apologize for being cryptic, but said nothing more.

"Master, I am uneasy at this," admitted Cottontail.

"In what way?"

She hesitated, gathering her thoughts. "I have had no home, no family."

"We have discussed your childhood in the orphanage, yes."

"And my life since leaving there has not been easy."

"None would dispute that," agreed J.

"I have been beaten, raped, shot at, and sold."

"Again, all unpleasant."

"In all that time, few people have ever cared what happened to me, whether I lived or died. I was a moneymaker, or a place for their dick, or worse. Entertainment and a slave. But now..." She looked down at her God-dammed too-big breasts. That's where the trouble started, their too-early development. No, the trouble started with the orphan master, the man who raped her when she was just a child. She shook her head to clear it, and looked back up at J, eyes almost wet. Sad. Yes, oh so sad now. The anger that she carried with her was fading. What was replacing it?

"But now people do."

"Not people. You do -"

"I do?" asked J blandly. She could tell, though, that she'd hit something deep in him. It resonated in the tight confines of the BMW.

"I believe you do," replied Katya.

"Perhaps.," admitted J. His eyes twinkled.

"And Stasia," she continued.

"Only as long as you don't interfere with the harem."

"And Michael."

"The Kildar? Are you sure? Or does he simply see you as a useful tool?" It was a test, she was sure, but she was long past the point where such barbs would derail her thoughts.

"I have thought on this much, Master. If I was simply a tool for him, I could have been replaced long ago. He's told me of his willingness to do so often enough. I'm not even unique for my little 'toys'," she added, somewhat bitterly, referring to the extensive bio-enhancements she had received. She flicked her hardened nails against the window.

"Then why has he kept you?"

"I think - no, I know, he has told me so - that he and I are somewhat alike, that he sees some of himself in me. We should repel each other, but we don't. If he asked me into his bed - asked, mind you - I just might say yes. Not before, I wasn't ready. Even though he's good at it and treated me well, it brought up too many memories. Even after the harem arrived, and Stasia, he always allowed me the choice, the chance to say 'no'. Without ever getting angry. Why?" She smiled crookedly and looked far off into the distance.

"He's also called you a sociopathic bitch," commented J, testing her again.

"And I agree!" responded Katya with a hint of a smile. "That doesn't mean he disapproves! Besides, he knows I bite!"

"This is all very interesting, padawan, but it has been a long day. I would like to take a shower and get some sleep. The point, please."

"The point, Master, is that I have found a home, and I want to protect it." When he smiled broadly, she reacted. "It's not funny! I - I want to have a home!"

"I wasn't laughing, padawan. In truth, I am pleased at your progress. From an abused teen who was unwilling to trust or care about anyone, angry at the world and anyone or anything that reminded her of her past, to a young woman who has made emotional connections."

"Then why won't you help them?!" snapped Katya.

"I didn't say that I would not help them, padawan. But my idea cannot be executed yet."

"Oh," said Katya in a much smaller voice.

"Now. Are you going to check us in, or shall I?"

===============================

"The Cave, Kseniya."

"Kseniya, J."

"Where are you?"

"Tbilisi. Are we still receiving satellite feeds?"

"Yes, we are. Anisa thinks that she'll be able to hold the feeds, as well; she's hacked a backdoor into the NSA's servers."

"Are any of them capable of gamma radiation scans?"

"Let me check... Three, yes. Two are currently in position to sweep the Chechnya region. We ought to be receiving those signals; I wonder why we aren't?" He heard her shuffling papers, then, "Yes, we did request it, days ago. This doesn't make any sense!"

"Does their range include Georgia? And Azerbaijan?" He heard typing, and muted conversation, but nothing clearly. Perhaps it was time to have his ears checked.

"Ye-es, barely. Why?"

"Can you download those feeds to my computer? I'll keep the encrypted satellite links up for some time."

"Yes, but I'll need to know -"

"Thank you. I'll expect it shortly." And he hung up.

Looking troubled, Kseniya called Grez over.

"What's going on?"

"J just called and requested gamma radiation scans of Georgia and Azerbaijan but didn't explain why."

Grez's decision was instantaneous. "Give it to him." Over the normal chaos of the Cave, a tone sounded.

"New data," said Anisa. "New source."

"Drop it to my station," commanded Grez. The usual bureaucratese - 'National Technical Means', et cetera - was in the header. "What is it from?"

"Tracing that now."

"Tell me later. Let's see what we've got." She tapped a few icons, scanning and sanitizing the data of any virus, traps, malware, Trojans - all the nasty bits of software she was still learning about. The Mice had upgraded the security so that it was generally automatic, with only a few point and click options. Now - what was this?

It was only a few seconds before Grez's quick eyes spotted the entry.

"Got you!" she exclaimed, jumping up. The normally unflappable Intel Sergeant practically sprinted from the Cave.

"What did she see?" asked Kira, back from the mission and at her usual post.

"I'm not sure," admitted Anisa. "But let's see if we can figure it out."

===============================

"The man's a genius," said Vanner, shaking his head, alternating between wonderment and bewilderment.

"He's still a freak," muttered Adams, rubbing his ass and still refusing a seat.

"Who else would have thought Schwenke would go through Azerbaijan?"

The disparate pieces of the puzzle - the gamma scan request, the overflight that picked up the little convoy - had come together clearly for Vanner. But he'd had to fold and spindle the data to get a result that would be as clear to the others as it was to him.

"Did we dump this data on J yet?"

"Not yet. As soon as I get back to the Cave, I will," admitted Grez. "I thought you should know, first."

"We know where he was yesterday. So what?" asked Adams, acerbically. "How does that help us today?"

"Ass-Boy, sometimes you amaze me," commented Mike. "We know what he's driving. We know from this sequence what direction he was heading, and we can approximate his speed. We're pretty sure he's headed here, that limits his choice of routes."

"If we can pick him up again, we'll be able to lock in on him, maybe even intercept him," added Vanner.

"I wonder if Captain Cheal is still available?" suggested Grez. "That's going to be our best real-time asset, and she's not limited by orbital constraints. Or egos." She stood from the table. "I'll take care of that."

"If you get her, make sure J gets that feed, too!" called Vanner as she left the room.

"I still say, so what? Lots of data, no results. You get too much going on, you're going to burn out someone's brain! Have any of you been down there lately? They're making cruder jokes than I do when I'm drunk! And you don't want to hear the puns they're coming up with! You don't take some pressure off them, you're going to start losing operators, if not entire shifts."

"That's a point," admitted Mike. "You have some thoughts on that, Pat?"

"Actually, yeah. If I can write a program to combine -"

Mike waved him off. "I don't need the details. We're not just whistling in the dark, right?"

"No, not at all. I wish Mouse was here, or even God-Boy to de-bug, but I've done it before." Vanner started tapping on his tablet.

"Good. Dave, what's the status of the cleanup from Orkin?"

"All of the weapons have been loaded at Novorossijisk, including the one we captured at Groznyy, making twenty-three."

"Security there?"

"A company of Marines. The Russians are playing nice, now that they've got their ass in a crack. They want their money."

"What about the techs we rescued?"

"Rescued might be too kind a term. Turned over to the hospital in Elista, for treatment for radiation exposure, but it's probably going to be too late for most of them."

"Make sure they don't disappear. And set up a fund for the survivors, or their families."

"No problem."

"Maybe Arensky has some ideas?" said Adams. "Gotta be a reason to keep the mad scientist around."

"I'll put him in touch."

"After-action reports?"

"I'll have a hot read done tomorrow, unless something else comes up."

Mike looked around. "Speaking of after-action reports - where's Major Hughes? I wanted his read on the status of the nukes, plus his eval on what's still in play."

Katrina, who had started following Mike to all the combat conferences, spoke up. "I think Jack is taking some, he called it 'welder's union mandatory down time'. He started to say something else, not very polite, about nukes and hot-shit Hind pilots. I'd have liked to listen, but I had to hurry to the meeting here. I don't know how much rest he's going to get," she added wickedly.

"Stasia?"

She nodded.

Shaking his head, Mike moved on. "Adams? If we need to take down Schwenke, what Team is on Ready status?"

"Team Pavel. Nobody's got a lot of rest, but they're better off than the others."

"Make up a movement and loading order and have them preload the SUVs."

"Gotcha."

"One last thing, I want Dragon on close air support for J. If he and Katya go haring off after Schwenke, they've got to have some sort of backup. Armed to the teeth, everything she can carry, ECM, the whole smash. Set up ammo and fuel caches if we get a chance, otherwise Valkyrie'll be shuttling guns and gas again. LZ's. Prep a MASH unit, too. Once we know where we're going to take the bastards, things will move fast. I want Pavel loaded as heavy as possible, too. I'd settle for short and victorious, but we're dealing with Schwenke."

"I'll let Chief D'Allaird know," said Nielson.

Mike looked down at the table, lost in his thoughts for a moment. When he glanced up, he said, "What are you all still doing here?" There was a scramble as all three tried to clear the room at once.

He hoped this didn't bode ill for the coming fight.

===============================

Four aspirin, a shoulder massage, and an hour later, Vanner had the program written and ready to download. He placed a call to J.

"Are you receiving the feeds you requested?" he asked without preamble. The shooter's glasses he wore cut down on the glare and reduced the feeling of icepicks being shoved into his eyeballs. How the hell did he ever manage to do this for a living? And find it fun?

"Yes. It's almost too much data." He could almost hear frustration in J's voice.

"Kinda thought it might be, so I'm going to send you a program I wrote that should help." He said a quick prayer to St. Isidore, the patron saint of computers, and dropped the code into the link.

"What is it supposed to do?" asked J as icons appeared on his screen.

"The basic program combines any data feeds you give it and filter them based on your requirements. If it needs more data, or it's acting wonky, ping us and I'll try to refine the algorithms a bit."

"For this application, I've told it to look for mobile gamma radiation sources - that was easy, I stole the code from an astronomy program that searches for planets, asteroids, you know, moving objects by comparing photographs of the same patch of sky. It's really neat, harks back to old-time astronomy, when they'd flash back and forth between two plates and try to pick them out by eye -" Even with the incipient migraine, he couldn't resist the slip into technobabble. It sounded impressive to most people.

J wasn't impressed; he was in a hurry. With a harsh cough, J interrupted. "Can we save the astronomy lesson for later?"

"Huh? Oh, right. Anyway, it compares them, frame-to-frame. Doesn't matter the source or time period; it's flexible enough to handle just about anything you throw at it. That will eliminate any natural sources, or any non-mobile sources. You see the magnifying glass icon?"

"Yes."

"If you highlight an area you want to examine more closely, select that and it will incorporate every photograph and angle it can find to prevent blockage from anything overhead."

"What if they're not moving when they're scanned?"

"Each source has a unique signature, kept on file for years by NEST and other alphabet soup agencies - you probably don't want to know which."

"No."

"If they're stopped on one pass, and moving on the next, or vice versa, they'll be flagged as the same source from the unique signature. In addition, another subroutine will look for the shapes of the vehicles we know they're using - the ZIL-E, and the GAZ-23s. Then, it will correlate all this data so that you're not chasing, say, a mobile X-ray truck."

"You've cut down on the possibilities of false positives?"

"Exactly." It was pleasant to only have to explain it once.

"What if one of the GAZ's breaks down? Won't that affect the program?"

"Thought of that. The three main criteria are the presence of gamma radiation, the unique shape of the ZIL-E, and mobility. The presence - or absence - of a GAZ is a corroborating factor, not a primary one. Purely secondary. Then, a final subroutine will feed the data to whatever mapping program you're using - so you can follow the bouncing ball."

"Right. Well, thanks. We'll give it a shot."

"Good luck. We'll be in touch if we get any hits here."

As J shut down his mobile, he scoffed, "Technobabble. I've shot people for less." An ancient headache threatened to return, thinking of interminable PowerPoint meetings that had kept him in endless offices instead of in the field, doing his job. At times like this, he was truly grateful to Mike Whateverhisnameis for getting him away.

"What, Master?"

"Never rely too heavily on technology to do your work, padawan. It is a great aid, and a wonderful tool, but if you depend on it too completely you will surely, someday, fail. And in our job, failure can mean death." He poked at his tablet.

"In this case, though - technology is going to help. Assuming Vanner wrote the program well." He explained briefly what they were looking for, ten seconds as compared to Vanner's five minutes. Succinct. Time saved saves lives.

"It sounds reasonable, Master?" She sounded unsure, but she trusted J and those back in the Cave. They were family too, in a way, and she could trust them to look out for her. Usually. Not that she'd ever admit it to them. Telling J had been hard enough.

"Oh, it is. But as I said before, I have encountered Kurt three times before. After the second encounter, when I didn't recognize him? I made it a point to learn as much as possible. I studied everything in his dossier, trying to get inside his head. At least as nearly as I could, given the darkness that's in there." His eyes studied Cottontail for a penetrating moment, as if seeking shades of that same madness, but found only concern and a desire to complete the mission right now. Either she really cared, or she was getting better at masking her thoughts. It was progress, either way.

"You know how he thinks? How I think - thought?" Her face was clear, guiltless, guileless. Even the frown wrinkles had faded from the corners of her eyes, making her appear softer, more vulnerable. He knew, though, what lay beneath those placid waters and kept his eyes locked on hers, still probing.

"Not quite. I can, perhaps, reason out his thoughts, and make educated guesses. And yes, the time I've spent with you has been very helpful in that regard. You have faced him, too, and lived to tell the tale. You saw into what passes as his soul. You thought along the same lines, but now can think as an intelligent, caring woman. He can't. That makes you invaluable, for while I can think like you, thinking sideways like him hurts. I wonder, sometimes, whether he was born that way, or if it was training."

"And if you knew it was training?"

"I'd hunt down his trainers and put them down as the diseased animals they are. Sometimes, vengeance can be mission-critical." He grinned viciously. "In any case." He raised his tablet and pecked at the icons, waited. "That is why we came here, instead of going back to the Valley."

"Please, explain?" She leaned forward to examine the tablet. Reading upside-down wouldn't bother her; he'd taught her that trick long ago - well, perhaps it wasn't that long ago. Things had certainly changed. There was a chrysalis, leaning over him, and he was looking forward to seeing what, exactly, would be revealed.

On the surface, she was entirely focused on the mission at hand. Yet she almost let their shoulders touch before withdrawing from such presumption. Her conscious mind didn't register it, the barrier that her subconscious still maintained. Yet the barriers were weaker now than ever before.

Her thoughts weren't as dark. The cells that held the nightmares of her past - she held the keys, now, and could unlock them at will when the rage those horrors evoked was needed. And, similarly, they could remain closed without effort now, a part of her life that she controlled instead of the reverse.

"I leave it as an exercise for the student. Take what you know of him personally, add in all that you have learned, and work the problem backwards, from his intended result to when we became aware of him."

"I don't want to think like him!" She recoiled in horror. "Not anymore!"

"What you want or not want rarely enters our profession, padawan. Try again."

"Yes, Master." She closed her eyes, called on her nightmares, and found them quiet, just waiting for her to look at them in the light now. There was no rage, no hate, yet no peace... yet. There was a need, and if the need had a name... Cottontail... Katya... and it had done thus.

Why am I now doing this? She hugged herself tightly, reassuring herself that she was still herself and in her own body. She opened her eyes and saw the world a bit differently. She let her mind race for what seemed hours, but in fact was less than two minutes.

She shut that cell tightly, that way of thinking. Now it had a face and a name. It was in good company in the dark recesses of her mind. Now, though, it was foreign. It would not affect her real self.

She found that she no longer feared Kurt. Hated him?

Yes.

Angry enough to kill him without taking time to question him?

Definitely.

Fear of the man?

No more. Her shadow was his shadow and she found hers were stronger, armored with a need alien to that other mind. Love perhaps.

She'd think on that last part later. Mission first. The ping from the tablet completing the upload of its newest batch of data called her back to the world around her and she turned to J and smiled.

"Question: why split forces, and risk defeat in detail? Answer: a small group is much easier to control than a large group. He always requires control . He might lose himself in a larger group and fool them, briefly, into doing what he wanted. It couldn't last, though, and that lack of control would infuriate him. I think what angered him most, in our two encounters, was the damage I did to his professional pride, rather than disrupting his plans. And that anger, simmering for so long, is interfering with his plans, because he cannot let it go. Like me, before..." She ended in a near-whisper.

Regaining control, she said, "He's found a focus for that anger and regaining control: eliminating me or hurting me so much that I lose my self totally. Hurt those that I might - do - I don't know. Love?" She finished tentatively.

"A good start. Is there more?" His smile echoed unspoken pride.

"Yes. A small group is harder to detect. And that allows the other group to be used as a diversion. To a normal person, it would be a waste of assets, but to him, they are simply tools, to be used. And if he can use them to disrupt your enemy, so much the better." She paused, visibly thinking, then brightened.

"I wonder if the Emir had much of a life expectancy."

"I think he was healthy, or at least as healthy as most."

"I meant, some sort of accident. If Kurt played it right, and you know he would have, he would have ended with full control of the Emir's resources with no oversight from anyone." She shuddered. "Definitely a good thing that his hand was forced, or we would have lost before we even knew there was a contest."

"Very probably, padawan. But, to return to the problem at hand. What does that accomplish?"

"It draws resistance to a time and place of his choosing."

"Therefore..."

"Therefore, weakening the defenses in other places." She blinked, herself again. "But, Master, what of the sensors that Vanner has emplaced? They won't be fooled."

"No, but sensors do no good if their alerts are ignored. Remember the human factor. Consider the women in the Cave, how long they have been working this problem, staring at screens, combing gigabytes of data and then digging for more. How much sleep have they gotten? How many mistakes have they made already?"

"He knew of the sensors? And the people monitoring them?"

"I doubt it, but he likely assumed that there would be mechanical devices of some sort. He was a successful agent for many years. He would plan for the worst and build his responses from there. If he had time, he would use pawns to probe the Valley, gauge the response. Given the size of the area the Kildar is attempting to protect, he'll know there will be gaps, but he won't know where. Remember the bugs you used against him in the Bahamas? What did he do about those?"

"Oh, right. Nothing. He knew he was blown, so escaped as soon as possible. Likely he had multiple plans in place against various eventualities." She made a face. "Master, thinking as him is making me ill."

"Good. So much the easier to discard his thoughts when you're done. Now. If you are using the bulk of your military might as a diversion, what does that leave you?"

"Guile? Stealth? Surprise?"

"Yes. It also concentrates your enemies in a single place, like what you did with the firecrackers. Some run to trouble, others run from it. Which are the more dangerous? Which were more dangerous that night?"

"Yes, Master. 'Firemen run to the fire.' Which makes it easier to eliminate them all at once!"

"But the concentration of forces takes time."

"My assault, if I am Kurt, the real assault, has to take place much later - hours, even days later. Enough to waste sleepless hours on watch-and-watch, to tire the watchers, exhaust the troops that would defend against attack. The first assault are the firecrackers; my assault is the claymore we used to eliminate them all. Yet, Master, if I am Kurt, I worry: what if they actually win?"

"You still win, no matter what. Let's say that the Keldara are defeated - unlikely, but possible. Then when you show up with the bomb, you place it for detonation and leave. Mission accomplished, and gloat from afar. Alternatively, if the Keldara defeat your diversionary force, then they're lulled into a false sense of security, relaxing their vigilance and allowing for an easier infiltration by you. And finally, if they don't relax, if they stay vigilant, they exhaust themselves in the process."

"Making them useful, not at all. I see. And that, too, explains why we are here, in Tbilisi, instead of to the north. We must get inside his thoughts, and his mission cycle, again."

"Yes."

"To reduce my risk, I would come at the target from an unexpected direction. North is obvious, and the larger force is taking that route - that makes it the worst possible choice. A double tap could almost be predicted, and might possibly work if he had better troops, or better training."

"Circling around to the west, I would have to travel through Russia for an extended time, and Georgia, too. Russia would be easy, if I had the uniforms to match the vehicles. But Georgia?" She snorted. "Not fucking likely."

"Heightened security, a greater familiarity with the papers you have undoubtedly forged, and the lingering hostility between Russia and Georgia. Exactly as I'd have done if I was him, Katya. That leaves us what?" He prodded again before she could react to the praise.

"So that leaves east, and south. Not both, not enough assets." She rubbed her temples, considering the possibilities. Thinking like Kurt seemed to be causing her considerable strain, which reflected well on her new core personality. "I would come... Through Azerbaijan and into Georgia, or all the way into Armenia and then north? Think!"

"I doubt Armenia. That adds an unnecessary complication, a third country, and another chance for forged passports to be discovered. Too many hands stretched out, and there are other agencies that have active assets there." He raised a hand, forestalling the questions. "Yes, I know about that. You'll have to trust me."

He tapped the tablet. "Before we use this, think some more."

"That's why we're here, then. From Tbilisi, we are in the best possible position to intercept them, no matter which route is taken. The best roads - well, better than most - and better angles to cut the arc and interfere with the timing of his plans." She looked up, pleadingly. "May I please stop thinking like him?

"Very good, padawan, yes, you may. Now, though, we must rely on Vanner's gadgets to complete the task. If we had more time, we could utilize our network, trust actual sightings. We don't, so..." Tap tap tap.

"ECCHI! ECCHI! ECCHI! HENTAI! HENTAI!" He quickly hit mute, cursing Vanner for using software he hadn't fully vetted and vowing to have a serious, Fear of The Gods talk with the Mice when they all returned.

"Master? What was that?" She leaned closer.

"Ignore that, padawan. Just the Mice's bad idea of a joke." He turned the tablet over.

"Shall I kill them? Just for practice?"

"Regrettably, no. They're ours."

"I can just make them wish they were dead."

Helpful and willing Cottontail is not what he needed now. "No. Just, some aspirin." This job was murder. If the enemy didn't do him in first...

Not that far away, Vanner's thoughts mirrored his own.

He dry-swallowed the pills. "Now, coffee, please, and perhaps some dinner."

"I saw a drive-thru on the way into the city, not two blocks away, it's a McDonald's and I haven't tried it yet, so can we? Can we? Can we?" All of Kurt's personality was totally gone, replaced by the bored and hungry little girl she played so convincingly on others.

Sigh.
CHAPTER 44

Mike's Rooms

April 14

"Ouch!"

"Sorry."

"Ouch!"

"Sorry."

"Ow, dammit!"

"Sorry."

"Kat, maybe you ought to get Kurosawa?"

"No! He said that I am ready to use the needles, that soon it will be my duty, and I should practice on you to learn your particular needs."

"Did he really?" Mike flipped over, careful to keep the towel in place around his middle. "Kat, how, exactly, did you do your training?" He looked her directly in the eyes.

Katrina stopped in mid-motion, acupuncture needle in hand and about to strike at a newly exposed area, and thought. "At first, it was simply a dummy, to learn the general points. And an anatomy chart with Hiro."

"Sensible."

"Then, the next level, Kurosawa got volunteers from among the Keldara. It was for the Kildar, so there were many choices at first."

"Did any of them last more than one session?"

"Well, not at first - but then I started getting it right!" She waved the needles around in a way that made him flinch inside. "Jeseph, he did eight or nine practices with me!" She placed those needles in the sanitizer, picking up another from the warming salts. That one she ran through a flame to get it even warmer.

"Jeseph? Jeseph Mahona?"

"Ye-es," she answered cautiously. "He was a good patient! For a while," she added.

"He's got a higher pain tolerance than me!"

"Oh." She looked at her hand, then the other implements. "Oh," again. She started to pout, not forced at all.

"Yeah, oh." A moment's pause, then, "Tell you what. Get Kurosawa, and Stasia."

"Stasia?"

"Stasia. Most definitely." His tone brooked no disobedience.

In just a few minutes, the Kildar's Japanese batman and his harem manager both arrived. Kurowasa was wearing one of the eye-searing Hawaiian print kimonos he favored during his off-duty hours; Stasia was wearing much less, having been giving the Harem another lesson. They looked at each other then, face carefully neutral, Hiro bowed Stasia in before him.

"Hiro, I don't think that Katrina is quite up to your level."

"No." He never lied, but he would also never volunteer more information than the question demanded.

"So, if you don't mind, I would like YOU to continue doing my treatments."

"Yes." Mike explained, quickly, what Katrina had started and what needed to be finished, all the time feeling the full redhead glare that said life wasn't being fair to her and someone was going to pay. Until...

"And Stasia?"

"Yes, Kildar?"

"Did you have fun with Jack earlier?" She didn't answer, but color rose in her cheeks and her nipples hardened immediately as pleasure and shame warred in her. "I thought so. Fine. Strip."

Without a word, blushing slightly, she removed every stitch of clothing. There wasn't much to take off, but she seemed to linger over ever tie and peeled herself like a banana. She was shaming herself, intentionally, and loving it.

"Get on the other table." He used the voice he usually reserved for their private 'special' sessions.

She did so, still bare, flushing a deeper red. He looked at Katrina, whose anger was slowly fading.

"Katrina. Practice on Stasia. You know her tastes, don't you?"

"Of course, everyone in the caravanserai knows! Until you finally built her room below, you could hear her through the entire house!"

Stasia wiggled a little. She knew of Katrina's practice sessions and had heard the tales the Keldara told of her. While she preferred men, pain was pain. Which is why what Mike said next so surprised her.

"Fine. She enjoys pain. Your goal is to give her the least pain possible."

"Master!" Stasia objected, eyes wide.

"If she orgasms, you know that you've really screwed up. And it will cost you a week's truffles that I ordered for you. And you, Stasia, won't get any for the same week."

"Master!"

"Michael!"

"Got it?"

"I understand," answered Katrina, a wicked smile on her face. "If she doesn't come, do I get her chocolates?" Stasia glared at Kat, who smiled back like that cat who'd just gotten into the cream. Then they both... giggled?

Had they winked at each other? That came under the category of Very Not Good Things. Time to check the credit card bills more closely again. Maybe vet all the packages before they were opened.

"Good. Now. Hiro." Mike closed his eyes and relaxed as Kurosawa applied his double dozen years of acupuncture expertise to his joints, trying to ignore the occasional moans and gasps from the other table.

Ahhhh.

"OOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHH!"

"That's one week. Ahhh. Right there. That knee's been giving me hell since I got back."
CHAPTER 45

Somewhere

Sometime

He knew something was wrong immediately.

It was the same feeling he got when his Team was about to get screwed on an op. Same as when Katrina spoke in that weird voice on the road trip. Cold fingers of dread gripped his heart.

His eyes focused on the figure before him. The mocking smile flooded his being with anger, dispelling the unnatural cold, and his demons erupted.

"Who the fuck are you and how did you get into Stasia's dungeon?"

The man laughed. He was taller than Mike, solidly muscled, with blonde, dirty hair, perhaps dirty with ash, and he smelled like an abattoir. He looked to be wearing one of Mike's bondage outfits - leather straps, chains, dark and forbidding - but it wasn't, quite. It seemed to have been soaked, saturated, repeatedly with blood, for the coppery scent suffused the air. Mike's eyes picked out the knife. He never carried around a knife like that, with a wicked-looking curved blade and roughly serrated on both sides. It reminded him of a shark's grin, and just as hungry looking. For another, he was pretty sure that his knives - and the leather, too, he noticed - weren't that blood-stained. At least not for long. It offended him, professionally and primally.

"Stasia's dungeon! Oh, mortal, that's rich!" The mouth barely moved enough to reveal the blackened teeth. The fetid breath knocked him back a step before the words sunk in.

Mortal?

His body wanted to fall to its knees and beg under the compulsion from that voice, but he resisted. Mike was never one to back away from a fight, no matter the odds, and whether expected or not. This was certainly unexpected, but he found the hot flame of his anger and focused it. Time to be afraid later. Now was the time to take charge. His legs responded to his commands and he rose to his full height.

"The first question stands. Who the fuck are you?"

"I am Holer. God of Death and Pain. I would say at your service, but you have been at mine for so long, it wouldn't feel right." Now the voice didn't compel as much as caressed. Mike knew this tactic. He'd used it before, extracting information. Scare the prisoner, then calm them, get their emotions whipsawing so badly they turned to him as a single island of sanity and they'd reveal anything he asked. He could deal with this.

"God of Death? Bullshit."

He laughed again, enjoying the situation. "Ah, such spirit! I shall enjoy this, mortal!" He leaned against a whipping posted that groaned in protest, spikes on the gear sinking deep into the wood that was beginning to resemble flayed flesh.

"Enjoy what?" He stopped short of cursing. This - god? fraud? - seemed to preen when Mike was verbally abusive. Fine. He could play that game too.

"Your fate, of course." He smiled, gnashing his teeth and seeming to chew on a fine, tasty meal. "You belong to me, and it's going to be so much fun!"

"I don't suppose it matters that I don't believe in you? That you're a figment of my imagination, and all I have to do is wake up? That you have no power over me?" Dammit, Mike, wake up!

"Not in the least, little man! And you can stop trying to wake up. This is real, you see. As real as the death you've dealt to your fellow humans."

He chuckled lowly, a menacing sound. "You humans! Thinking belief matters to a god!" He snickered. "At least, not to me. Death? Pain? I am always among you, and I must say, Michael Edward Harmon, you have done more than most to strengthen me! Even sex and love - " The distaste was evident in his tone. " - You turn into pain. What a glorious joke! Freya and Gerd's gifts to humanity, turned into power for me!" He laughed again, harshly, growing larger.

"So I'm dead? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Oh, no, little mortal, not yet! You're coming with me, and I'm going to have such fun, doing to you all the lovely tricks you've done to others! Such an imagination! You humans have such imagination, such creativity, when it comes to giving pain." He shivered in ecstasy. His eyes locked with Mike's, and Mike loathed what he saw there. But was it his soul reflected? Or Holer's?

Suddenly using Mike's voice, he said, "Dulce et decorum est, pro patria mori. You motherfucker." In his own voice he continued. "Brilliant! Such genius! Oh, I swear, you humans are better at creating new and inventive ways of torture and death than I could ever be!" He skipped lightly around the post, drawing rope-like intestines out and wrapping them around like he was decorating a Maypole.

Focus! Duty. Honor. Country. Make the other fucker die for his!

"I remember that," said Mike. "OBL. But he deserved to die! He had killed thousands of Americans and was torturing college girls to death right in the next room!"

"Yes, and he was doing a good job of it, even if he delegated too much," said Holer. "You interrupted him. But motivation doesn't matter. Reasons don't matter, in the end." He waved blood-soaked fingers at the wall, spattering them with an obscene pattern. "You killed, you caused him to die painfully."

He shook his head as Mike began to protest. "I'm not arguing that he didn't deserve it! Everyone dies, eventually, and I am not judging! But you did: judge, jury, and executioner. Why, you're a regular fashionista of death!" The laugh was absolutely revolting, and Mike felt his gorge rise.

"Then why me? Why the show and the stage? You couldn't just tell me? Surely, if you know me so well, then you know how I despise all the bullshit."

"Because I'm a god, and I can!" With a wave of his hand the dungeon disappeared, replaced by a stark, concrete-walled room containing only a sheet-covered gurney. The sheet was concealing something. In the darkness beyond the voice echoed off to a whisper. "I can do anything... anything... anything..."

"Do you remember me?" said a female voice from under the sheet. It was raw, husky, as if it had been screaming for a long time. Odd hisses and burbles followed, below where the chin would be.

Mike moved closer, though not of his own volition. Or did the gurney come to him? He couldn't tell.

"You were too late to save me," continued the voice. Not a woman's voice, not quite. A teenager's voice, rough from overuse. He could see, now, bloodstains on the sheet, and blood seeping from the gurney's drain.

"You were sleeping, and I died. I died in pain and agony, I died raped and humiliated. You don't know the pain I endured when they peeled my skin off. When they burned off my nipples with a blowtorch. When they took clubs and smashed my bones." The figure under the sheet sat up. "I still lived, screaming for help, screaming for God, screaming for mercy, screaming for anyone, until they took a knife and slit my throat." The sheet fell away, revealing what must once have been a pretty girl with light brown hair. The eyes, untouched, accused him.

"Your name was Clarissa McCutcheon," Mike choked out. He remembered exactly what he'd seen tossed to one side of the room, once he'd been able to crash their party. After he'd gotten the bastards who'd ordered it, who sat in their comfortable office watching.

"You remember? Then tell me. Why didn't you save me? Sleep? Was it that important? Or did you really need to get some head?" Her head cocked sideways, the slit in her throat gaped open. "Was killing him really more important than saving me?"

"Yeah, sleep! I had been on a very intense op for two days and -"

"And I died!"

"I couldn't save everyone!"

"You saved everyone else," the corpse said bitterly.

The injustice welled, carrying the rage. "Yeah, well, fuck you! Now you know why we say, 'It sucks to be a hostage'! People always die, no matter what we do to save them! I did my best and got shot to hell doing it! I fucking died three times on the way home, you died once, and I saved the rest of the girls so FUCK YOU VERY MUCH!!!"

The scene suddenly changed. Now it was the rear compartment of a helicopter.

"You couldn't save me," said a voice behind Mike. He didn't want to look. He knew the walls were painted with the blood and gore of the last woman who had taken his heart. Oh, not all was hers. Some was her brother's, killed in a war not his own, a war Mike had sent him to to die.

He knew that his soul was being flayed for someone's amusement. He didn't know why. He didn't want to give them satisfaction, but something compelled him to speak. To ask forgiveness? To explain?

To say good-bye?

Without turning, he said, "I didn't know. They didn't tell me you were crewing one of the Hinds. They didn't tell me you were running a machine gun."

"I died alone."

His face in his hands, he answered, "I wasn't there, I couldn't stop you."

"I loved you, but you refused me. I became a warrior, blessed by the Elders, to make you love me, yet I died never seeing you again." The bitterness in her voice was painful.

"How could I know?" He stared out the door of the not-Hind. There was no answer from the beyond, either, just a blood-red mist concealing all.

"Even now, you won't look at me."

"I want to remember you as we were. Remember the chocolate mousse? That's what I hold in my mind, not what a bullet left behind! I can't - I don't want -"

"To see me? Am I so shameful? Is it so awful that I loved you?" The voice, contradictingly filled with love and bile, got through his guard.

Tasting ash, copper, death, dirt, he turned around. Somehow, Gretchen stood behind him at her side gun, in her borrowed utilities. Blood-stained, especially through the middle. He knew, without a doubt, that they were the only thing holding her body together.

"I never got to say good-bye. I loved you, Gretchen. I still do. When you died, a part of me died and almost didn't come back." He reached to touch her face and he felt fiery tears in his eyes, the first he'd allowed himself since his epic drunk after her death. "You'll always have a place in my heart. I lo..."

The scene shifted again. Now it was another room, an office, perhaps. Bodies were scattered all around. The smell of burnt flesh wafted through the air.

"You killed me," from an all-too-familiar, though muffled voice.

"NO! You're not dead!"

"You killed me," repeated the voice.

"YOU'RE NOT DEAD!!" screamed Mike. "No! Never again! I won't allow it! Do you hear me, you coward? COME BACK HERE AND FACE ME!"

"She will be," said Holer, happily. "This is her fate, surely as the sun will arise tomorrow. Her love for you will bring her to this. I'm a god; we know these things, we can make them happen! Fates? Pagh! Idle gossips, compared to a god!"

"When?"

"Does it matter? Be grateful, mortal, that I am permitting you so much of a glimpse of the future. She will die attempting to rescue you from your enemies. It's going to be so much - BLAST!"

"Do not be so sure, Holer," came an old voice from a dark corner.

"You! Meddler!" He spat blood that burned the ether around them.

"All three of us," agreed the voice, moving forward. Three women, wearing long dark cloaks and hoods, revealed themselves.

"And who are you?" asked Mike.

"We are -"

"Interfering bitches! Begone, Norns! You have no place here! This is a matter for gods, not busybodies!"

"Ah, ah, ah! Remember, Holer, we spin the threads of gods, as well as mortals," said the voice. "And you invoked us. Tsk, tsk! Gossips, are we?"

"You don't frighten me, Urd!" But Mike could hear the worry in his voice. Without intent, the pun came to him: finally, a thread of hope to grasp.

"The mortal knows the truth of my sister's statement," said a different, younger voice. The middle figure cast back her hood, revealing the face of a mature woman. "Shall we reveal your future? Or perhaps we should simply cut it off?" She produced a strand from beneath her cloak, glistening strangely in the light, like a string of almost-congealed blood.

"No," muttered Holer. "I have no wish for that." The being took three steps back from Mike's side.

"Then piss off! En'fore I kick you in your bollocks!" said the third figure in a decidedly girlish voice. The accent shifted, becoming more modern, almost Californian. "Like, take a hike! Now!" Were those pink, glitter-covered Converse All-Stars he saw?

"Mortal, do not think yourself saved," Holer growled with some of his previous belligerence. "You are too much a servant of mine to escape your destiny."

"Destiny? What do you know of destiny?" said the mature one. "Off! Unless you will pay the All-Father's price? We can show you your destiny, Holer!"

"I'm leaving," said Holer, sourly, and without another word, vanished.

Mike didn't say anything, but as if she'd read his mind, the youngest hummed the closing bars from a famous cartoon series. "What a total drag!" said the youngest one. "I want to go shopping!"

"He believes too much in his own power," agreed the oldest, after slapping the youngest upside her head.

"What was the All-Father's - Odin. His eye. He traded an eye to see the future." Mike nodded to himself, gathering his wits. "He called you Norns," said Mike. "Fates?"

"If you wish," agreed the middle. "Weavers of the threads of life. I am Verdandi," she continued, "Spinner of the present." Mike bowed. Why not? Return respect when respect was given.

"I am Urd," said the oldest. "I watch over the tapestry we have spun, looking always to the past." Mike kissed her old, wrinkled hand. She cackled and pulled it back. "Can't let the others make any mistakes."

"I'm Skuld," giggled the youngest. "I've got to plan the future, and it's a bitch!"

Mike settled for giving her a respectful nod. She was potentially the most dangerous of the lot, and a teenager to boot. "You're not quite what I expected," admitted Mike. "And what did Holer mean? I'm too much his servant?"

Urd answered. "You have been serving him, Michael. Your entire life, you have been spreading death and pain through Manheimr -"

"That's Earth," clarified Skuld, bouncing. She reminded him far too much of... dangerous, anyway.

"As I was saying," snapped Urd, rolling her eyes. "Even those you love, you bring pain to - physical, emotional. Sometimes both. So Holer is the ruler of your soul. He's marked you and watches you. But playing with you? That's going to far, even for him. Some bridges even the gods must not cross."

"If I was to analyze you, I would say that you have deep-seated emotional issues that have manifested themselves in a need to dominate your surroundings, physically and sexually, hence your devotion to -"

Mike interrupted Verdandi. "If I wanted analysis, I'd go see a shrink. No thanks. And, Urd? You can take Holer and shove him up Odin's -"

"Stay on point, dude!" said Skuld. Her look gave him a chance to stop his thoughts in place and his real needs surface. One second of clarity, that was all he needed. His anger faded. It had probably been that bastard of a god trying to get at the Norns through him anyway. Fuck him! Watch me play nice and be calm! Suffer, you miserable little shit!

"Which is what?"

"Holer was trying to take you away, man! He wanted you for his own little toy!"

"I don't swing that way," joked Mike, feebly.

"Holer takes people and tortures them to death," interpreted Verdandi. "That's his role, and he does it very well."

"So do you!" added Skuld. "That's why he came for you! He wanted pointers. No imagination in that one. Always the same, over and over and over!"

"Even as he tortured you," agreed Urd. "He would extract every last idea from you and try them on your body before, eventually, killing you."

"He could try, but that begs the real question: Why?"

"That's how he gets his rocks off," shrugged Skuld. "Told you he was a freak."

"And this is a god? You Aesir've got some serious issues," said Mike.

"The issue, Michael, is that it is not yet your time to pass from your world. Holer was presumptuous and wanted to speed thing up, claim you now."

"Yeah! And who knows, if you bite it fighting, I might come for you! I moonlight with the Valkyries, you know," said Skuld. "Not those twelve chicas you've got working for you now, but flattery'll get you anywhere."

"Katrina! Does that mean that's not her fate?" Mike asked hopefully, the hope warming his soul.

"It is a possible fate," admitted Verdandi. "Her path is not yet set, not woven."

"She's such a cutie! I just don't know what I want to do with her!"

"She deserves a good, long life," suggested Mike.

"Maybe. Or maybe she ought to go out gloriously! She sure has the spirit of a Valkyrie!"

"Ah, for the days of glory!" reminisced Urd. "Warriors, burning passions, devotion to the gods. Sword, spear, shield..."

"Yeah, yeah, and magic helmets too. I want her to live," pressed Mike, feeling that these women would understand his reaction better than any others and not take offense.

"I know," said Verdandi. "But there are - problems."

"What problems?"

"She can't tell you, silly! Only I can!" giggled Skuld. "And I'm not telling!" she added in a sing-song voice. Now she was wearing a shockingly pink Japanime wig to go with the shoes, striped socks, and body-hugging dress. Blink.

"Sister, that isn't fair," scolded Verdandi. "You have to give him enough information to make a good choice." She shrugged and looked at Mike. "Holer interfered with your life. We must give you a chance to change your path. It's part of the rules."

"Rules suck!" shouted Skuld. "They never, ever let me go shopping! I have to go borrow ideas for new outfits from mortals!" She looked at Mike. "Could I borrow your credit card? Oh, and the body of one of your harem for a bit of fun? I promise to make it worth your while!"

"Sister!"

"Oh, all right. Michael," she continued, much more formally, "You have great deeds to accomplish. Much evil still exists in your world. For you to have any of the future you desire, you must surrender some part of that future."

"Surrender my future? How?"

"You will arrive at a cusp, two paths to take, two choices to make." She lifted her hands. In one was an empty cup waiting to be filled; in the other, a pair of scissors. "Choose one, and you shall have all that you desire - but not at the time you desire it. Choose the other, and all you have gained shall be snatched away from you. Snip!"

"What cusp? What choice?"

"More we cannot tell you. You must decide."

The three figures began to fade.

"Wait! Stop! I need to know more! I'll even pay Odin's Price!"

"Choose wisely, Michael."

A grey mist descended, the ground below him rose, and he slammed into it, knocking his breath out.

Mike woke up.

His bed was going to need new sheets. All his old wounds were flared red, and it looked like he had been sweating blood.

Marks of Holer? Maybe.

Marks of his past? Definitely.

Marks of his future?

On the table to the left he saw a cup.

To the right were scissors.

Explaining this wouldn't be fun
CHAPTER 46

Tbilisi; The Caravanserai; Various Roads in Georgia; A Hunter's Track near The Valley

April 15

"Where is he?"

"Patience, Padawan." It was near dawn. Cottontail had cat-napped all night, but J had been busy online. He showed no inclination toward moving, however, which was sorely trying her very limited tolerance.

"We've been here all night, surely you've traced him by now?"

"I have." Tap. Tap. Finger scroll. Tap. She wasn't sure he even blinked as the image changed again, giving his face deep shadows. Another flicker and the shadows moved, but still his face was immobile.

The bland admission infuriated her. She knew she was pushing, but her sleep had been restless, broken by unpleasant flashbacks and nightmares. People she was beginning to think of as friends died in those dreams. "Then why aren't we on our way to fuck him over?"

"Backup."

"Backup? He's one man!"

"Who's escaped both of us in the past."

"But there are two of us!"

"Think, Padawan! Surely the blonde hair hasn't affected your brain!"

That slowed her. Sarcasm from J was a sure sign that she had missed something obvious, or she was pushing him too far. Steadying her breathing, she reviewed the exercise of the previous day, added the facts they knew, and then...

"He's coming to the valley with a nuclear weapon. Yield, unknown. Detonation range, also unknown. Likely path, known." He nodded and turned back to the tablet.

"And how is he bringing it?"

Oh! "Master, I forgot."

"An agent cannot afford to let her emotions override her intellect. That was one of your first lessons."

"Yes, Master. No excuse." Embarrassed, and a bit angry with herself, she blushed to the tips of her ears.

"Explain what you missed." Tap, slide, scroll, tap tap.

"He cannot be alone, because he is part of a small convoy of multiple vehicles."

"So at least one driver per vehicle. What else?"

"He's bringing a nuclear weapon, which will weigh more than one man can reasonably move."

"False logic. Not only can a weapon be made small - think 'suitcase nuke' -"

She interrupted. "But, Master, we know what was taken from the Russians! There was nothing so small!"

"True, but we don't know if he acquired one from another source. A small weapon would be lost in the signature of the larger and would thereby be virtually invisible to our scans. I regard this as unlikely, though."

"Why?"

"It is an unnecessary complication. Think. In your encounters with Schwenke, has he ever made the plan more difficult than absolutely necessary?"

She considered this. "No."

"Nor I. There is another consideration, too. You assume that he would choose to remove the weapon from the vehicle. What is one constant characteristic of Schwenke?"

"People are tools, and therefore disposable; material objects even more so."

"Precisely. He probably intends to detonate it in place in the transport vehicle. So - what other evidence that Schwenke is not alone?"

"I am unsure. Other than what visual intel we have gathered, and the fact that vehicles do not customarily drive themselves..." She almost allowed her voice to stray into sarcasm but held back. Just.

He looked disappointed. "You told me the answer already. 'People are tools' - and so why would he deprive himself of tools?"

She mentally kicked herself. Too easy, too obvious. Her anger, her worry, her desire to get - home? - yes, home, was blinding her. Perhaps another tack. "Master, you said 'backup'. When will this backup be ready? How far from us? How many can we call on? And how will we use them?"

He allowed the change of subject. "In fact, Padawan, it should be available to us," he ostentatiously consulted his chronograph. "Now." He cracked a smile.

Cottontail wanted to scream but restrained herself. She settled for sticking out her tongue. "Then should I prepare to depart?"

"You should already be prepared, but, yes."

As always, having her failures pointed out angered her, but, again, she refrained from cursing aloud. "Yes, Master. Immediately!"

=============================

"Got 'em!" Kira Makanee's voice rang through the Cave. She'd just come back on duty after returning from the 'Rockpile' mission and was taking the missing nukes personally.

"Where?" Stella was running the Cave at the moment, Grez finally having crashed after twenty-eight straight hours.

She zoomed in the map on her station. "Here, just past Norio, bypassing Tbilisi on the M9." The main screen shimmered and then reflected the data on her console.

"Probable route?" asked Stella, looking at the giant LCD.

"He's stayed on the major roads," said Kira, tapping on a few keys. "This is a composite view of their route." Made of point sources spread across two full days, it traced the route of the little convoy back through Georgia, Azerbaijan, and into Russia.

"Sneaky bastard, isn't he? Out in the open but gone around the long way. While we were looking north, he went east."

"Yep. But we've got him now, and we won't lose him again." Kira called up yet another screen. "This is Captain Cheal's live feed. She just came on station, replacing Captain Steckino and his U-2V, and has legs for another six hours of observation. I hope we don't need it that long; he's already far too close for my comfort!"

"We've got to get this upstairs."

Tap, tap. "Done. And sent to J, as well." She paused. "That's odd. It looks like he's receiving the raw data, though what good that will do him without our programs boggles the mind."

"Good girl! Now it's up to our boys to nail him. Let's show those Rangers what Tigers can do!" She slammed her hand down on a button that would alert the troops in their bays. She winced when she realized how little sleep they'd had since returning, but they were warriors - no, soldiers now, which was more dangerous - and they'd deal. She'd suggest some strong coffee before moving out.

"Kira. I'm going to personally update the Kildar. Do not disturb Grez for at least two more hours, and no, I don't care what she told you. Keep sending updates to the Op room and J, especially if there are any radical changes. Make sure J's tablet IFF is working and has the current FOF cues; we're not gonna have another blue on blue!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Kira turned to execute the orders, then turned back. "One thing more?"

"Yes?"

"Don't forget Dragon; she hasn't fed, lately."

=============================

"What's the plan?" Mike looked a little bleary-eyed, like he hadn't slept well. The look he shot the others ensured that any comments about sleeping partners and his current condition were unwelcome. Even the Chief shut up in the face of that glare. For now.

"Best estimate, based on their route history, is this." Nielson called a detailed map of the area roads onto the display. A bright red line snaked around the M9, up the M3, and then turned east onto the Tilaneti Road. Occasional green dots showed where a positive, matching gamma reading had been made. "Even though the ZIL has serious off-road capability, the GAZ-23s are, essentially, souped-up sedans. They've stuck to good roads the entire route we've been able to reconstruct, and I suspect that's an attempt to keep their force intact and minimize breakdowns. No doubt they're trying not to leave a vehicle behind before the mission is accomplished."

"That's what they've done; what do you think they'll do?" snapped Mike.

"I was getting to that, Kildar," said Nielson, placatingly.

"Sorry. Bad night." Bad dreams.

"What's the matter, didn't you get laid last night? I know the harem's missed you," ribbed Adams. Water, duck. It hadn't even been a minute. But it was an old game that helped them both prepare; it also focused Mike's anger on the Chief rather than the other personnel.

"Fuck off," muttered Mike. Adams raised an eyebrow.

"That's the best you've got? You're not even trying."

"In any case," interceded Nielson quickly. "I think our best option is to place Pavel's team here." He highlighted a point about halfway between Alerrso and Bukhrala, about a fifteen kilometers south of the valley proper.

"It's close enough so we can provide solid support if Schwenke somehow manages to elude or break through, but distant enough to keep our people safe in case he chooses to detonate prematurely."

"Weasel words," said Vanner. "Rough on the town, too, if the nuke goes off. I think we ought to take him out here," and he pointed to another location. "Yes, it's closer to Zhinvali, which is a much bigger town, but look at the terrain. A winding mountain road, sparsely inhabited, steep inclines to either side - he'll be trapped. And if he sets off the nuke there, so what? A few mountain goats get killed."

"The problem I see is that's a good fifty klicks away from here - an hour to get there, plus time to set the ambush, and we're going to be on minus minutes," countered Nielson. "If we're closer to the valley, we have a better chance of being set."

"They're averaging thirty kilometers an hour," retorted Vanner. "There's plenty of time to catch them farther away. We can use both birds to bunny hop a short platoon forward, and he'll never hear or see a thing."

"Look," interrupted Adams, "Why don't we just get Dragon to hose them down with a few hundred rounds, followed by a shitload of rockets?"

"Because I've already dumped one bird after a nuclear blast," snapped Kacey, who was sitting in. "And that is plenty!"

"In case you haven't noticed, Chief," added Mike, "Those Hind-Js aren't cheap."

"So? We have a couple hundred mil coming in, we can afford a fucking fleet of them!"

"That's not the point! The point is I'm not riding a dead bird into mountains! I'm not taking passengers along for the ride, I'm not gonna dump a bird, lose friends and maybe more! Not gonna happen!"

"SHUT IT!" The pitched contralto cut through the Op room.

All heads turned to Katrina.

"Thank you," she said much more quietly. "I assume that you wanted to hear my opinion, since you invited me to this meeting?"

"You just sort of showed up," muttered Adams.

Overriding the Chief, Kat continued. "I agree with Vanner. And the Colonel. And Kacey. And Michael. And even the Chief." Seeing the baffled looks, she raised her hand, ticking points off one finger at a time. "Vanner: We need to intercept them as far from here as possible. Colonel: We don't have enough time to set a proper ambush there. Chief: An aerial assault will maximize our chances of success. Kacey: I wouldn't want to crash land in the mountains either. Michael: We don't want to replace any equipment we don't have to. I propose we call OSOL and see if we can get a Predator up here to do the job."

They sat, dumbfounded, for a moment. Katrina smiled serenely. Stella snuck a wink at her that was returned as Kat brushed her hair back behind her ears, then looked around the table again.

"Fuck me, why didn't I think of that?" was Adams' comment.

"Got me, Chief. I didn't think of it either," admitted Vanner.

"I'll call OSOL," said Nielson, leaving the room.

Mike just sat back and smiled proudly. "That was...impressive."

Tammy whispered to Kacey, "When did she become a Captain Jack fan? I thought they just streamed porn?"

"No, that's just you and the Chief. Speaking of which, when you going to take a run at him? Oof!" Whatever else she was going to say was lost to the elbow planted firmly in her side.

=============================

"Won't work," said Nielson, returning a few minutes later.

"Why not?" asked Mike.

"Too far away to make it here in the time constraints. They're all looking over here." He pointed to the map. "They were so sure that was the only route, too. Boss." When the Kildar looked up, he continued. "When this is all over, you really need to have a little chat with some alphabet soup agencies. If we'd had the gamma scans from the beginning, this wouldn't be an issue."

"Fuck! And, yeah, boot to ass time. Guaranteed."

"It was a good idea," consoled Kacey, trying to calm both Katrina and the Kildar.

"Right, then," said Mike. "We go with Dave's plan. Roll Pavel and his team, set up the assault. Kacey, I want you close enough to be on site quickly, but you don't have to stay airborne. Coordinate with Captain Cheal to keep them under observation. Direct feed to you, filtered feed to the ground pounders. Primary consideration, I want to know where he, and that fucking nuke, is at all times."

"Got it, Kildar."

"They'll be rolling in ten minutes," said Nielson. "Stella got the men up and fed as soon as she got the data. Nice work, by the way." She nodded in acknowledgement. He turned to the two pilots. "What are you two still doing here? Grab the ready vehicle and shag ass to the flight line!"

They shagged ass.

"Chief, I want you to have two more teams on ready status. Pick 'em."

"Probably Vil and Yosif. They're the most flexible and had the best trucks on the way back." He unconsciously rubbed his ass and the small of his back.

"Whoever. And Vanner, I want those expensive toys of yours dialed up so high they scream if a mouse farts. If time allows, run a full check from the inner perimeter outward. Lasko - fuck! Just when you need him!"

"What about the Mice?" someone squeaked.

"I thought Creata was still away? Wait, how would we know until it was too late?" He waited for the chuckles to die, then said, "Got it. So, no Mice, no Shota, no Lasko...Hmm. Kildar? Option - alert the trainers and DI with the Rams, get them in position to guard the serai?"

"Works. Let them earn some pay the hard way. The Gurkhas will eat it up, if they get a chance to fight. If not, well, good training."

"Okay, people, I think we have a plan."

As everyone filed out of the room, Mike put his hand on his fiancées shoulder. "Kat."

"Kildar? Something wrong?"

He looked oddly at her. "Kildar? Since when do you call me Kildar again?"

"It just feels right, here, now."

He dismissed the cold that grabbed his soul. "I need to ask you something, as trainee Priestess. You can bring in Mother Lenka, if you want, after. What do you know about dreams?"

=============================

"Where is he?" They were in the BMW, and Katya was driving.

"On the M9, about to merge with the M3," replied J, looking at his laptop.

"He's just ahead of us?" The car surged forward, engine roaring in the cold mountain air.

"It is too soon for us to catch him," counseled J. "Slow down, and take the next exit. That one," he said as they almost passed it, then grabbed the 'oh fuck me' handle as she made two emergency brake-assisted J-turns. They ended up on the exit, only slightly after its intended entrance.

"Is that where Schwenke is going?"

"No, it's where we are going." He played with the onboard GPS. "Follow the directions, Padawan."

She looked over the projected route. "But that takes us almost to Akhmeti!"

"Yes, you show again your powers of observation." The road they were on now was narrower and had more curves. Disconcerting curves. Curves where one side dropped sharply off to nothing, without even a guardrail between them. His grip tightened imperceptibly.

"But that's not where the Kildar thinks Schwenke is going! Have we been taken off the duty?"

"Not at all; in fact, we haven't been contacted in several hours." Conversationally, he continued. "This is market day, you know. And this road is an untaxed road, which most of the locals use.

"Then why?" She wove through two carts being pulled by no-longer placid and bored mules. J just saw wide eyes in faces wrapped against the wind and cold. He nodded and shrugged. Not likely any would remember details after trying to restrain their mules.

"All will be revealed," said J unhelpfully. He dialed his phone. "One moment."

When the call was answered, he said simply, "Now," and hung up.

"A little surprise for Kurt," he said before Katya could ask.

"I hope it's slow and painful."

A few moments later, she simply had to ask. "Master? What sort of surprise?"

"Would it be a surprise if you knew?"

"I'm not Schwenke! And it's not as if I'm going to tell him!"

"Just drive, Katya. And please watch out for those -"

Thump!

Whap!

THUMP!

"Potholes!"

"Oops?" She smiled. J found himself smiling back. He liked her; she was full of surprises -

Thump!

Whap!

THUMP!

Then again, maybe he should just pray they arrive in one piece.

=============================

The ZIL-E was maxed out, rumbling along in the far-right lane at nearly fifty KPH. If new, it would have been able to hit sixty-five, but time hadn't been entirely kind to it. Nor had the maintenance done to them clandestinely done more than restore them to running condition. The four GAZ-23 escorts formed a protective bubble around it, one each positioned to the front and the rear, and the other two covering the left side of the vehicle. Curious motorists passed constantly, peering at the ungainly six-wheeled beast. The nervous mujahideen fingered their hidden AK's.

Even disguised, they were not used to hiding in plain sight. More than one had begun to raise a weapon, only to have another slam it back down. The only warning voiced was, "Ibrahim forbids." But that was enough. More than enough to keep them in line, for now. It didn't make them any less nervous, though. In fact, it did the exact opposite, granting them time to dwell on the news they'd received.

Although Ibrahim had forbade use of the radios, word of Tahan's defeat - his almost utter destruction - had reached them over a cell phone. In broken sentences, made more difficult to understand by the mountainous terrain the few surviving fighters were traversing, the details of the debacle were given before the signal was lost for good.

Then, from one car to another the word spread, even into the ZIL-E.

They were surprised indeed when Ibrahim didn't object to the calls, or even react to the news in any visible way. His face remained placid.

"It is of no importance," he reassured the men with him in the ZIL-E; not surprisingly, as close as they were, Ibrahim refused to leave sight of the weapon. "Tahan and his men are glorious martyrs to Allah, and Allah shall reward them in kind! They have weakened the infidel, allowing our true mission to proceed unhindered! Let us praise Allah and remember Tahan as a true son of the jihad!" He lowered his head, and the others - excepting the driver - followed suit.

Perfect. Fucking stupid Keldara will be busy 'sanitizing' the battlefield, confident that they succeeded in defeating the threat. They don't know what a threat is. But they'll learn.

His hidden musings were interrupted by the blare of cars' horns and a screech of ripping metal. The massive ZIL-E shuddered, then seemed to jump. The driver disengaged the drive, then applied the brakes. Behind them, two crumpled shapes were stopping traffic.

"Idiot!" barked Ibrahim at the hapless driver. "What did you do?"

"I did nothing, I swear it!" answered Gamal.

"Then what happened?"

"I do not know! Perhaps one of the other drivers can tell you!"

"It appears that two of our drivers will be answering to Allah," said one of the other fighters, peering at the two wrecks. "We are missing two cars."

What could have happened? wondered Schwenke. Realizing the potential for disaster here, he said, "Gamal! Get us moving!"

"But the others -"

"They will follow when they see us moving."

"No, the men in the wrecks!"

"Allah shall watch out for them," said Ibrahim. In fact, he ought to be talking to them right about now, though Schwenke after a single glance in the mirrors revealed the carnage.

"We cannot delay. This is surely a trap laid by Shai'tan. Only our speed can help us escape. Now drive! We cannot afford to deal with the local police, now when we are so close to our objective!"

"Yes, Ibrahim!" The diesels rumbled back to life, and, vibrating a bit, they resumed their travel north.

Witnesses later would generally agree that the accident was entirely the fault of an older model tan Mercedes. The female driver of the Mercedes apparently overtook the odd army vehicles in the middle lane before slamming into the front car and speeding away without another glance. The driver of the impacted GAZ hit the brakes and instinctively swerved away from the impact, into the side of the ZIL-E, before disappearing under one of the oversized wheels and being spit out the side.

The second GAZ simply crashed into the wreckage of the first, shearing off the roof - and the passengers.

There were no survivors, and so nobody to answer questions about the interesting collection of forged papers and military hardware the inspectors eventually dug out of the wrecks.

J's contact ditched the Mercedes in Tbilisi, where it was quickly stripped of parts, hitting the black market in hours. Of course, she'd get a cut of that, too, as the mechanics were all cousins of one sort or another. The five thousand Georgian Lari - about two years' average salary - was already in her bank account.

Female drivers indeed!

=============================

"Something's happened," reported Kira, still on shift.

"Show me." Grez had returned to the Cave after a few hours' sleep, but she was the grumpier for it, even more so for missing the meeting.

"Here. All five vehicles, heading north, then," she shifted screens, "Only three."

"Did the other two pull over? Take a different road?"

"I think they're still on the M3. See the traffic backed up?"

"Yes."

"If I focus in for details..." The picture wavered and changed. "Those look like they used to be GAZ-23s."

"Can we get some sort of confirmation?"

"I'll see what I can pull out of the Patruli's database, though I doubt they've reached the scene yet, not the way the traffic's backed up."

"Too bad they fired the National Police a few years ago; all the corruption, I'll be they'd be easier to tap into."

"The Mice have dug a pretty good tunnel," amended Kira. "It's not a question of getting in as much they're not very good at putting the data in the system. At least, not as good as we are," she added with a smile.

"Oh." Grez thought for a moment. "What about J?"

"What about J?"

"He must have contacts in the Patruli. He is our HumInt guy, after all."

"I can ask," said Kira doubtfully. She'd been following his updates; they'd been few and shy on any information. All take and no give.

"No, I'll ask him. Do we know where he is?" Grez reached for a secure phone.

"Last I knew, he was in Tbilisi."

=============================

"Where are we?" asked Cottontail. A large lake was visible on the left, stretching off into the northwest. "Big lake. Wonder why I've never been here?"

"That's called the Tbilisi Sea. It's a reservoir, and it means we're getting close to our destination."

"I still can't understand why we're here and where -"

"Wait one, please," J interrupted as his mobile rang. "J."

"No, not any longer." A short silence.

"Yes, a few contacts." A much longer pause.

"I'll make some calls. You should hear from someone shortly."

"Of course, it will be the public line. This is my private line; please keep it that way. Thank you." He paused again as his tablet downloaded images and smiled.

"Yes, nasty looking. Good-bye."

Nothing was more frustrating than hearing one half of a conversation, but she'd never quite dared to bug any of J's devices. "What was that?"

"Indirect confirmation that Kurt's gotten a little surprise."

"That does it!" Cottontail pulled sharply to the side of the road and stopped. "I'm not driving another fucking meter until you tell me what's going on, what you've arranged, where we're going, and why! I am so sick and tired of your 'mysterious all-knowing master spy' bullshit, I can't even begin to tell you!"

J looked at his with resignation and - was that respect? - in his eyes.

"I knew this day would come soon," he agreed, explaining nothing.

"Stuff the cryptic shit! Damn you, J, this is my life you're playing with! I know you care more than Kurt does, but right now I feel like a fucking puppet and you're the puppeteer! What's your excuse for treating me like he would?"

"I think you've cut your strings," said J. Before she could erupt again, he continued, holding up the smart phone. "Fair enough. I arranged for one of my contacts to create a little 'accident' for Kurt to whittle down his forces somewhat. The call was from Grez, asking first if we were still in Tbilisi, second if I had contacts in the Patruli, third explaining that Kurt's little group seemed to lose a pair of vehicles, and fourth asking me to have one of my contacts forward their information to her."

He shifted in the seat. "I believe that answers your first question, 'what's going on', and your second, 'what have you arranged'. Now then, as to where we are going: we are positioning ourselves to intercept Kurt before he reaches the valley and incinerates it. And, finally, I think you can deduce the 'why', but I shall elaborate. If you start the car again. Time is rather short."

With white-clenched knuckles, Cottontail resumed driving.

"As we discussed last night, Kurt is nothing if not devious. The obvious must be dismissed from our consideration immediately."

"I know that -" began Cottontail.

"Since this is the last chance I have to explain things to you, please do me the courtesy of not interrupting."

"Last?" The word shook her visibly.

"You're interrupting." He waited a few seconds before continuing. "Better. Having correctly concluded that he would not approach from the north, or west, and positioned ourselves for interception from the south or east - why would he now take the obvious route?"

"Because it is easier? Or the only one available?"

"How much time have you spent with the mortar teams?" The apparent non sequitur threw Cottontail for a moment before she replied.

"Very little."

"A definite lapse. You should always take full advantage of the knowledge and abilities of the people around you. Always walk around, talk to people, old, new, visitors, merchants, city folk, villagers and the farmers. Hunters too. If you have your own militia, definitely talk to them. Ask lots of questions, without being obvious. I've taught you that much already. And most of all, listen. Listen to their stories, their fears, their dreams and let those create new questions to ask. Wisdom comes from always learning. You will never know it all. Never, my dear Katya. Not ever. And yes, someday that will likely kill you, or someone you care about, and there won't be a damn thing you can do about it. But you should know enough about yourself to know what you don't. What you are lacking most and how to rectify that fact. Be sure to do so when you have the chance. Before it is too late."

"But what would mortar layers know of our jobs?"

"Specifically? Nothing. But they have all lived in this valley all their lives, as have their parents and grandparents and back and back. They heard more about the valley as an infant than most others have learned in their lives. Take Jessia Mahona. Very intelligent young woman, very thoughtful and deliberate in her actions. Thinks through all the possibilities, then acts on the most likely to create success, without dismissing the others."

"I know Jessia's marrying that American," said Cottontail.

"That, too. But we were discussing the valley, and alternate entry and exit points - you never know when it might be important to have a back door - and she mentioned a disused road running into the valley from the east."

"The Pankisi Gorge track? That's so heavily seeded with Vanner's sensors that -"

"No, not that overused way. This is a road that parallels the Ilto River from Akhmeta north, past a number of small towns and ends deep in the Caucasus."  
"So?"

"So, there's a little western spur that extends right into the heart of the valley here. It's so overgrown, you can't see it from the ground. According to Jessia, it was another smuggler's track."

"And you think Schwenke knows about it? Are you completely nuts? Perhaps one or two of the Elders, or Lasko - did Lasko tell her?"

"I submit that it is the least obvious possible route, and therefore the one that will most likely be overlooked."

"Jessia didn't tell Schwenke too, did she? How the fuck would he find out?"

"He's spent at least the last eight months in place, plotting this. You don't think he did his research? Where was he for a year? During that little war we just had, how easy would it have been for him to enter the Gorge and talk to people? I'm not saying that he knows, but we can't assume that he doesn't. We can't afford to."

"What do we do about it? There are only two of us, you may have noticed."

"That, I'm still working on," J admitted. "In any case, this will be your last mission with me."

"But I'm not ready!"

"You don't know it all? You certainly acted that way a few minutes ago."

"I was angry, frustrated -"

"And rightfully so. No, Katya. It is time for you to end your apprenticeship."

"Master -"

"No longer your master. J. You may call me J now."

"I don't know if I can do this without you."

"Do not fear failure, Katya. Remember what I taught you: fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration."

Katya joined her voice to his. "I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

"I remember. Mas - I mean, J, I have always wanted to ask where you learned this?"

"From a very wise man. Frank Herbert taught it to me, and to many others."

"It is calming."

"That is the purpose. Now. We have to figure out how to stop him."

"We're sure that he'll take this road?"

"No. But, knowing the Kildar, the other, obvious roads will be totally inaccessible."

"What if we...?" She started pitching her ideas and smiled as J, her former Master, smiled back at her. They were partners now. Perhaps unequal partners, but she knew he would no longer treat her as an inferior. It was time to show what she had learned, and how devious she could be.

There was a true bastard to be killed at the end of this, and she wasn't going to miss that for anything.

=============================

"Pavel reports that the ambush is in place," said Adams, driving the Expedition. He flatly refused to let any of the Keldara drive.

"Good work! That was faster than I hoped! Do we still have a lock on Schwenke?" asked Mike. They were driving to an OP overlooking the planned ambush.

"Yeah, Captain Cheal's locked on tighter than a virgin's pussy - you know what that's like, right? You haven't forgotten yet?"

"Fuck you, Ass-Boy."

"That's more like it. Damn, boy, you've been in a funk all day. I ain't good at all that touchy-feely bullshit, but if you want to talk about it - " The Chief let the offer hang.

"Not really, and sure as fuck not during an op," answered Mike. "But thanks."

The Expedition ghosted to a silent stop.

Pavel's chosen location was at a natural chokepoint in the Alerrso road, where the two mountainsides came together. The narrow river that flowed down the valley had carved a ragged gorge here, which the original settlers had widened a bit, mostly to get at the river rock for construction.

Modern road-building crews, faced with the task of either chiseling away the mountainside and blowing up what they couldn't chip away, or keeping in the river's floodplain and risking the spring floods, had chosen a third option: tunneling.

The steepness of the mountain slopes posed a significant avalanche risk, as proven at least once each winter, and the jumbled piles along the river showed the near-constant accumulation of tumbling rocks. The river was too wild, and too unimportant, to dam for control, so every spring floodwaters would race through the valley floor and scour away everything within a hundred meters of the usual banks. Lower down the valley, the plain widened, and the road was able to cling to a relatively 'safe' edge. Further up the valley, toward Alerrso, the mountainsides shallowed, making it practical to build. But at this one spot, neither was a viable option.

A short tunnel had been built to get past the gorge, then. It was roughly two hundred meters long and had proven itself quite durable. Padrek had argued passionately that simply dropping both ends of the tunnel, sealing in the attacking force, would pose a lower risk to everyone involved. It might even contain a nuclear blast.

"We have backhoes," he had mentioned more than once. "We can clear the road." But this one road was the main link to Tbilisi, the airport, the industries, all the things the growing population of the valley depended on. There were two other roads, but one was totally unusable by vehicles, and the other involved a detour of over sixty kilometers through very difficult terrain, probably too difficult for any heavy trucks to pass.

The plan was simplicity itself: wait for the ZIL-E to clear the tunnel, then blast it, and everyone riding aboard, to hell. The critical concern was to prevent the nuke from being detonated. The words 'Deadman's switch' had been brought up repeatedly. While there was nothing they could do about a true Deadman's switch, they could try to prevent any immediate activation. To that end, both Braon and Manos were in God perches, one on either side of the road, to ensure that one would have a shot into the cabin of the ZIL-E.

Nobody believed that Schwenke would trust the detonation commands to anyone else, so he was the first target. Once he was taken down, the rest of the team would open up with everything they had, taking no prisoners. The concussive blast should disorient any survivors long enough.

If Pavel needed backup, Vil and Yosif were in position five hundred meters back. And Kacey was sitting in the middle of the road a kilometer away, rotors turning, loaded for bear. The Dragon was hungry.

"You think this will work?" asked Adams.

"It's as good as we can do for now," admitted Mike. "I wish we'd had more time, so we didn't need to allow them into the valley at all, but we didn't." He shrugged. "This will have to work."

The radio interrupted the conversation. "Kildar, Keldara Base."

"Go."

"Patching through from Victorian Lady." There was a hiss of static, then Captain Cheal's voice rang through the SUV. "Kildar, do you read?"

"Go ahead, Victorian Lady."

"Target vehicles have bypassed the road. Repeat, target vehicles have bypassed the road."

"FUCK ME!" Mike sat straight up. "Where are they going?" Turning to Adams, he said, "Contact the Cave, get me an updated feed, now!" The former SEAL nodded and grabbed his sat phone.

"Continuing east on Tilaneti road, according to your maps."

"Roger, Victorian Lady. Maintain observation. Out." He thumbed off the radio. "Fuck!"

"Yeah. Ditto."

"Back to the barn, Chief. We need to figure out what this asshole is trying to do, and we'd better work fast." The SUV shot gravel from its tires as Adams threw it into a sharp turn.

"What about Pavel?" Adams said between gritted teeth. Potholes at speed. Again. Dammit.

"Leave 'em, in case he tries to double back."

"Vil? Yosif? Dragon?"

But Mike was already on the radio. "Dragon, Dragon, Dragon - I need you to do an immediate dust-off. We're coming through and coming through hot."

"Understood." From the tone of Kacey's voice, it was clear she didn't understand at all, but he could hear the whine of the turbines spooling up. "Dust-off in twenty seconds."

"Guess that takes care of Dragon."

"Kildar to Team Vil, Team Yosif. Mission is scrubbed, repeat, mission is scrubbed. Fall back to base. Over."

"Roger, wilco," answered Yosif.

"Moving," came Vil's simpler reply.

"And where the fuck is J? I really need to pick his brains on this jackoff! Hey, Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"You have my permission to miss the fucking potholes!"

=============================

They had stopped a kilometer past the turn for the smuggler's track and concealed the car before hiking back along the verge of the gravel road, loaded with equipment. Some, Katya didn't remember packing at all. Now, it was priceless, no matter how heavy. Somebody was gonna get screwed, and it wasn't going to be her.

"No complaints about carrying our gear?" inquired J.

"No. I understand why. If Schwenke notices the car, we're screwed. And we need the equipment to fuck him over, sideways, and upside-down, then bury him sorry and sore. Then blow up the grave. Just to be sure."

"How shall we 'fuck' him, then?"

"Ah, well, I was hoping you might have some ideas that are, perhaps, a little more subtle than mine. I tend to be more, ah, direct. Bloody."

An arched eyebrow and an, "Oh?"

"I'm afraid I'm thinking along the lines of Semtex and big guns," she admitted. "That or screaming for help."

"Help would be useful," J agreed. "I think it's time to check in."

=============================

"How the fuck does he do it?" marveled the Chief.

"He's a master spy, didn't you know? And he's kept Katya in check; that's proof enough for me."

Mike and Adams were back at the caravanserai, headed for the Op room.

"What do we do now?"

"He asked for support, we get him support." Mike thought for a moment. "It's too bad we left Pavel tied down at the ambush site, but it can't be helped. They'd be perfect out in those hills. After the Mules, nobody does chaos better."

"I think Oleg," suggested Adams. "Sometimes, you just need a bigger hammer, and he'll pound them flatter than shit."

"Pat, how's the sensor coverage in that sector?"

"Pretty poor," he admitted. "I knew about the track, and so the end of it's pretty well seeded, but beyond that, not much. It's simply too distant and not a major threat axis."

"Isn't that where Lasko released the tiger?" asked Grez.

"I think it is," said Vanner, thoughtfully. "Wonder if it's still there?"

"Didn't you put a tracking collar on it?" asked Grez mildly. The question, innocuous to the others, was like a slap to his head.

"That we did!" Vanner's fingers flew over his keyboard. "Let's see now. Yes, there he is." A flashing icon appeared on the screen. "He's not moving. He might be sleeping."

"That's probably a good thing," said Mike. "Don't need a tiger eating J, and I really don't want Cottontail killing it!" The thought of Cottontail fighting a tiger brought a ripple of laughter to the room, despite the tension.

Adams said, "She'd probably tame it and want to keep it as her pet kitty. Bet none of the other girls would try to get in her room then. She'd have to take down the IEDs, though. Come to think of it, that might be a good thing."

"Okay, so we back J's play and be ready if he calls in a team. Agreed?"

A general murmur of assent swept the room.

"Good. One medic team and one sniper team in Valkyrie, they secure the LZ. Then the Dragon can feast after Oleg pounds some sorry-ass nails."

=============================

"Pardon my impudence, Ibrahim, but was that not the road that leads to our enemies?"

"That is one road," admitted Ibrahim.

"Should we not have turned?"

"Remember, Mus'ad, we battle not against mortals but the wiles of Shai'tan himself! Surely you have not forgotten your Qur'an? 'I will lie in wait for them on thy straight way: Then I will assault them from before them and behind them, from their right and their left.' Can it be any clearer? We cannot take the straight way, we must use cunning of our own to avoid Shai'tan's snares!"

"Yes, Ibrahim, I remember."

"Then have faith! Remember, too, that Allah promised that Shai'tan cannot defeat the faithful. 'My servants, no authority shalt thou have over them'." Ibrahim smiled broadly. "If you put your trust in Allah, and in his faithful servant, we shall certainly prevail!"

"Yes, Ibrahim."

Fifteen minutes later, Ibrahim spoke again. "Now, turn left." The traffic light turned yellow as the ZIL-E lumbered through, and red before the final GAZ-23 passed under it. Suddenly a Patruli car flipped on its lights, accelerating after the GAZ.

The tension, news, fears, and lack of direct leadership, partnered with the enforced radio silence, suddenly rose to bite Ibrahim's faithful ass. The driver saw flashing lights and panicked, swerving around the ZIL and floored it. The modified Skoda followed close behind and twice as fast.

Ibrahim looked on in disbelief as the speeding GAZ tried desperately to evade the pursuing Skoda. One of the passengers leaned out the rear windows, firing his AK wildly. Some of the rounds struck the nose of the ZIL, others flew off to parts unknown. None hit the police.

But it did make them call for backup. This went from a pleasant interlude in a boring day to pure panic. They no longer carried more than sidearms; they had rifles, but they were stored in the trunk.

The two cars disappeared into the traffic, the police hanging back but easily pacing the GAZ. You can't outrun radio, after all.

"What do I do, Ibrahim?" asked Gamal, clutching the steering wheel and looking like he wished he was anyplace but here.

"Continue the mission. His faith was weak, and Shai'tan shall claim him. His weakness will lower the barriers between us and our destination. Drive on. I shall tell you when next to turn." The sounds of an AK ripping off a clip sounded faintly over the traffic.

Every so often, Murphy favors the righteous.

=============================

"A report just came in, a Patruli car is in pursuit of a car matching the description of the GAZ-23s," Anisa reported.

"Where?" Stella pounced.

"South of Chart'ala."

"Tell the local Patruli station we have backup en route!" Grez called, already out the door, running. Either she'd forgotten she could just pick up a phone or she'd opted to be closer to the action in the Op room.

"We need to get Dragon airborne to support the Patruli!" she spat, bursting into the command room.

"Dragon, Dragon, Dragon! Lift off now! Details coming!" Mike turned back to Grez. "So why did I just send our best force projector away? And where am I sending her?"

"Tell her - oh, let me!" Grez snatched the radio from Mike's unresisting hand. "Dragon, Grez. Head east to Chart'ala. Contact local Patruli on frequency eighteen, they'll coordinate with you. Over."

"Understand, vector Chart'ala, coordinate Patruli on freq eighteen. Dragon out."

Turning back to Mike and the others, Grez explained. "One of Schwenke's cars has opened fire on a Patruli vehicle. They're in pursuit and calling for backup. If we can get on-site, we might be able to capture one or two alive and then suck them dry."

"Gotcha. Okay, good instincts. How does this change our plans here?"

"If Dragon's off Chechen-hunting, we need Valkyrie up in her place."

"She's already standing by," added Katrina, sitting in again. "In case we need a medical evacuation."

"Good. Make sure her cannon's loaded."

"On it." Katrina stood and dashed from the room.

"Well, that ought to scratch one GAZ. Wait." Mike realized what just happened. "GOD DAMMIT, KATRINA, YOU'RE NOT FLYING WITH VALKYRIE! Oh, fuck. Someone call the flight line, tell Wilson that Kat is NOT to board Valkyrie. She can help load out, but that's all!"

"She's gonna make you pay for that, Kildar," said Vanner. "Ouch!" He forgot about Grez.

=============================

Rarely had Schwenke had a plan begins so smoothly and end so disastrously. In fact, the last time it had happened was the kidnapping of that Martina person. Come to think of it, that was the first time that bitch had interfered with his plans.

It was maddening. Had he been a normal man, he would have long ago pulled out all his own hair. Instead, he just wanted to kill someone. Someone with cold blue eyes. Flaring blonde hair. Big breasts. Muscular legs.

That brought him to the operation she'd blown in Bermuda and angered him more.

Back turned to his men, lost in his thoughts, Schwenke didn't notice the whispered conversations.

"I tell you, Faruq was right!" insisted Mus'ad. "It's not Shai'tan we have to worry about, it's Ibrahim!"

"But he's the Emir's favorite!" retorted Gamal. "He planned and executed the capture of the weapons! He brought in the infidels to rearm them! And he's joined us out here in the field! What further proof do you need? He puts himself at risk as by our sides! You've all seen his scars; he's done his part, and more, for the Jihad! I trust him!"

A third man spoke. "But why? What success has he brought?"

Glancing fearfully into the back, where Ibrahim was still distracted, Mus'ad replied, "Exactly! He brought disaster upon us, not success! How many men survived the attack on that cursd valley? That was almost half our total force!"

"But it's enabled us to get here," insisted Gamal.

"Where is here? And what 'us'? We were twenty men when we left the Emir; now we are seven!" He shook his head. "No, Mus'ad's right. We need to end this foolishness before it destroys us all."

It had taken Ethan McCown months to get inside the organization of the would-be Emir, but now it looked like it was finally going to pay off. He had received the 'withdraw' message from his controls, issued at the behest of one Michael Jenkins, but he'd convinced his superiors that he was more useful remaining in place. Or perhaps it was just that he didn't wish to see his efforts and sacrifices tossed away on the whim of some unknown player.

When he'd heard about the target chosen by Ibrahim for his personal attention, he knew he'd been right. He hadn't been able to report in, dammitall, but he figured that somewhere along the line an opportunity would arise to sow a little havoc, and it looked like he was right again. Now was the chance, now was the time. The men were frantic, almost ready to panic.

He just about had them convinced - all except that stupid driver. It was time to turn up the pressure, and -

"Miserable fucking cockroaches!" He didn't know what surprised him more, the bellow of fury, the cursing, or the fact that it was in English. He looked up to see Ibrahim raging down on the little group, a short, discolored knife in each hand.

"Betray me! Think you can stop me!" A hand slashed out, cutting a thin line along Mus'ad's arm. Nothing fatal, or even particularly disabling, thought McCown. Amateurish.

Another fast slash with the other knife, and Gamal's cheek was scored.

"Nobody can stop me! I am smarter than you all, faster!"

"Not as fast as me, motherfucker!" McCown answered in English, trying for surprise. He easily blocked the attack, batting the knife aside and drawing his concealed pistol. Neither man noticed the ZIL slowing as Gamal pulled to the side of the road.

"Big bad secret agent needs a gun? Aww, what's the matter, afraid of a little knife?" came the counter in perfect English.

"Afraid? No. But I don't need to take you alive." He shot but missed as Ibrahim dropped and rolled. "You're a quick little weasel, aren't you?"

"Hmm. An American, the atrocious accent is unmistakable. CIA?" Ibrahim was back up in a crouch. Mus'ad was trying, vainly, to staunch the bleeding of his arm

"Not bad, not bad." McCown was down in a classic shooter's stance, both hands on the extended gun, rotating to match Ibrahim's movements. "But who the hell are you? Really."

"You don't know who I am?" laughed Ibrahim. "Oh, this is too good!" McCown couldn't believe his eyes, as Ibrahim fell backwards onto his ass from laughing so hard, dropping the knife to clatter on the metal deck.

"I don't actually need you to tell me," said McCown. "In the end, forensics should be able to figure it out. But that takes time, and paperwork." Behind him, Gamal was quietly spasming in his seat. Shot? Maybe. Poisoned? More likely. He'd seen the way the Emir's man went down. 'Wrath of Allah' his Harvard-educated ass, that was a nasty little cocktail he'd heard of once. Who knew what else this prick had? Best just to shoot him and be done with it.

"Very well," the prostrate man sputtered, still laughing. "A name for a name. You first."

"I have the gun, I make the rules. You first." He forgot the rule when you have the gun and the upper hand: Shoot. Don't talk, shoot. He'd seen that Eastwood movie over two dozen times. He should have remembered.

"Oh, fine. Be that way." He stood with some difficulty, shaking with inner laughter that didn't reach his eyes. "My name is Kurt Schwenke, late of the East German Stasi." He bowed, slightly. "And you are?"

"Shut the fuck up. Schwenke? You've been disappeared forever!"

"Ah-ah-ah! A name for a name." Schwenke waggled a finger at him.

"Not that it will matter to you. Ethan McCown, CIA, senior agent for Chechnya."

"The pleasure is all mine, Agent McCown." Lightning-quick, a knife appeared in Schwenke's hand. He whipped it through the air, and it embedded itself in McCown's right shoulder. "Not yours," he grated harshly.

"Idiot!" said McCown. "Goodbye, Schwenke." He tightened his finger on the trigger...

Only to see the gun fall from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

"You really should have shot first, then asked your questions. Even a corpse can give up secrets. I'd have gone for a spine shot, myself. Debilitating and painful, but not immediately fatal. You might even have lived. Unlike that remarkable stuff, curare. Almost instantaneous interruption of the nervous system. Does the CIA still use curare?" asked Schwenke, conversationally.

McCown's knees buckled.

"Curare acts to block the transmission of acetylcholine in muscles and nerves, preventing their function," he continued, lecturing. "Very fast-acting, especially concentrated as it is on my knife. I do tend to overkill, but it's such a bother prepping the blades if I must use them more than once."

McCown fell to his side on the floor.

"I'm afraid, Agent McCown, that you won't be bringing me back to Langley." He noted McCown's frantic eye movements. "Oh, the others? Don't worry, they won't be helping you."

Schwenke walked over, turned McCown to face the front. "Gamal? Concentrated tetanus toxin. Poor fellow. I think the muscle spasms broke his spine. And Mus'ad? Nothing fancy." He turned McCown's head that direction. "Warfarin. Rat poison. Prevents clotting. Nasty way to go, bleeding out like that. Even a paper cut can be fatal, I've found."

McCown's breathing was labored now.

"I'm afraid, Agent McCown, that it's the end of the mission for you. Pity. If you'd been a little more patient, you might have been able to actually stop the nuke."

Schwenke's maniacal laughter rang in his ears as his vision faded to black.

=============================

The Skoda, sirens blaring and lights flashing, had held position two hundred meters behind the fleeing GAZ, awaiting backup. They were only moving at fifty KPH, for whatever reason; they could easily have overtaken their prey, but orders were orders.

"Patruli Unit Thirteen, this is Dragon Flight, over." The unfamiliar woman's voice came over their issue radio. Woman? Horrendous accent, too.

"Dragon Flight, this is Unit Thirteen, go ahead." The senior patrolman answered the call.

"Report position, please." At least she was polite, whoever she was. And what was a 'Dragon Flight'?

"Ah, pursuit has passed through village of Chart'ala, headed north on the Akhmeta road."

"Traffic conditions?"

"Very little traffic." None now. He tapped the driver to slow; they'd crept back within the hundred meter 'safe' zone.

"Description of target vehicle?"

"Black four-door sedan, body style suggests early sixties - rounded, wide, tall. Be advised, shots have been fired by occupants of the vehicle. Ak-47 by the sound of it, though they haven't hit anything they aimed at yet."

He heard a very unladylike snort. "Advisory noted. Stay clear, Thirteen. The Dragon is hungry. Out."

Turning to his partner, the senior officer said, "What was that about?"

"I think perhaps that," answered the younger man, pointing forward while standing on the brakes.

An ominous black shape was swooping in over the trees. Painted matte black, with a ferocious-looking dragon's mouth, the shape quickly resolving itself into a helicopter, long and lean. It pivoted in midair, settling to face the oncoming GAZ, revealing the stubby, armament-loaded wings in all their menacing glory. The nose cannon tracked onto the GAZ, while an amplified voice spoke in Russian.

"Attention, followers of the Emir!"

Pause.

"Attention, GAZ!"

Another pause.

"Hey, dumbass!"

A line of fire erupted from the nose, smashing into the pavement in front of the GAZ.

"A Hind, I think," said the senior patrolman, laughing.

Showing unexpected maneuverability, the GAZ swerved around and, tires smoking, accelerated south down the road.

The junior officer didn't need any encouragement. He dropped the Skoda into reverse and backed swiftly off the road before the sedan could get anywhere near them.

"Very good," said his senior.

"You don't want to do this!" boomed the voice from the chopper.

The sedan kept accelerating away.

"Stupid fuckers," the two Patruli heard, before the speakers started blaring music.

"Alice Cooper," commented the older, appreciatively, as the new voice said, "Yes, yes, I know you're hungry. And here comes dinner." Followed by a driving guitar.

The Hind quickly outpaced the overmatched GAZ. "Last chance!" came the voice over the music.

The driver of the GAZ, showing more courage than brains, reversed direction again, directly at the Hind. "Allahu Akbar!" he screamed.

"Oh, this is just not on," said Kacey in her cockpit. With a flick of her thumb, the Dragon roared.

A stream of rounds erupted from the forward cannon, pounding into and through the GAZ. There wasn't a hope in hell of anyone surviving the metal maelstrom the interior of the car became. A single tire rolled down the road a distance before toppling over.

"Patruli Thirteen, sorry about the mess. Dragon, out."

The two patrolmen looked at the ruined car, various fluids - human and mechanical both - seeping out, then each other.

"You're doing the paperwork on this," said the senior.

"Fuck."

=============================

"Bad news."

"They got away?"

"Not so much."

"They're not talking?"

"No, not that either, though they're definitely not saying anything."

"Then what?"

"It doesn't work too well, sending the Dragon after small prey. Correction, small, stupid, fanatical prey."

"Oh, fuck. Any survivors?"

"No. But the good news is, she's on her way back to base."

"That's good news?"

"Well, she can't shoot anyone else if she's on the ground."

"You sure about that?"

=============================

Schwenke, still stopped, dropped the bodies out the passenger door and off the side of the road.

"Ibrahim? What happened to them?" asked one fedayeen, climbing out of the last GAZ.

"They tried to steal the weapon and use it on the last village," lied Schwenke smoothly. "Even among the Faithful, Shai'tan is always willing to work his evil ways."

"Do we - are we enough for the plan to succeed?" asked another.

"Allah's Blessings will always follow the Faithful," said Schwenke, appealing to their fundamental faith. "Remember, these are not even People of the Book we are fighting. No, these are pagans, true infidels! Surely, if we are to spread Allah's Word to the Dar Al Harb, then this is the ideal beginning? And who better to accomplish this than we few, who have been so sorely tested and tried in reaching this point?"

Of the four men, he thought he read doubt on three.

"We have journeyed far, my brothers," he said, mildly. "The final leg is still ahead, and it is the most dangerous. If you wish to return to the Emir, I will not hold you back."

Eyes flicked back and forth nervously. Was it a trick?

"Allah shall guide your footsteps, brethren. If Allah moves you to go, you shall go, and with my blessing. If He moves you to stay with me on our Holy Quest, you shall stay. Inshallah." As Allah Wills.

Two men moved slowly to the GAZ. "A safe journey to you, Ha'in, Qel'zeb. May Allah defend the right."

At the soft words, the third man broke away to join the other two.

"You see, Mukhlis? Allah moves men to the places they belong." With a hearty clasp of his shoulder, Schwenke climbed into the ZIL. "Come. We have some kilometers to go."

Mukhlis took the passenger's seat while Schwenke started the engines. Surreptitiously, he reached under the dashboard and depressed a button.

"What will happen to the others?" asked Mukhlis.

"Inshallah, they shall return safely to the Emir and report our success." Schwenke's smile was totally genuine. It would take the will of Allah for them to return in one piece; the button he had pressed activated a timed explosive under the GAZ's front seat. In a half-hour, there wouldn't be enough left of Ha'in, Qel'zeb and Akhmafah to fill a gallon bucket.

"Inshallah," agreed Mukhlis. "Glory to Allah and His Prophet."

=============================

"Keldara Base, Victorian Lady."

"Go, Victorian Lady."

"Targets have divided. Zulu India Lima continuing north, Golf Alpha Zulu has turned south."

"Understood. Can you track both?"

"Getting good resolution, from this altitude, until they're about twenty kilometers apart. Then you'll have to choose one or the other."

"Roger, Victorian Lady. Will get back to you. Out."

=============================

"Opinions?"

"What does J think?" asked Grez.

"He's not answering his phone, and he never took the radio implant," said Nielson.

"Can't we transmit over Cottontail's link?" asked Adams.

"She's just out of range. We are receiving, barely, but we can't boost our signal enough to get to her without burning out her implants," replied Vanner. "I didn't think of putting that kind of booster in the sensor packs; they're already crowded enough."

"Damn."

"He and Katya are probably in their hide," added Mike. "Been there, done that. Once you find a hide you're satisfied with, you don't do anything to disturb it. If he's even carrying the mobile, it's undoubtedly turned off." He looked at Katrina. "Junior man rule. You first."

"Junior man? Just because I am youngest?"

Nielson explained. "Junior man rule refers to asking the, ah, least experienced member of a team their opinion first, so they're not influenced by the thoughts of those older and more experienced."

"Nice finesse job," whispered Vanner to Adams.

"Yeah, I didn't know how he'd get around saying 'lowest ranking'," agreed the Chief.

"In that case - I think we must concentrate on the ZIL. The GAZ is heading in the wrong direction."

"Kacey?"

"ZIL. Call it a hunch."

"Grez?"

"I concur. Analysis of images taken from the U-2V indicate that -"

"Jeez, Pat, you been giving her lessons in bureaucratese?" complained Mike.

Blushing, Grez said, "I was simply trying to be precise. Very well. The fact that they're going south is irrelevant; there are many routes to the valley. But we did not see them transfer anything large enough to be a weapon into the car."

"Better," grinned Mike. "Pat?"

"I agree with my wife," he said, and shut up. She leaned into him, the unspoken message, Isn't he wonderful, clear to all.

"Smart man," said Mike, openly laughing now. "Ass-Boy?"

"Qays - damn, he is one lucky SOB! - told us that the nuke was put on a ZIL. I say track the ZIL."

"Dave?"

"ZIL. I looked at specs for the GAZ, and for the two bombs that are still out there? The GAZ isn't big enough to carry either one."

"Okay, then, the ZIL it is. Still wish we could just send the Dragon out to feed one more time."

"We could have her take out the GAZ. We know she can do that. I'd bet she'd even sleep with you for the chance to splatter some more jihadists across the gene pool."

"Bite me, Chief! I'm right here, remember?" Kacey glared at Adams.

Water, duck. "Anytime, anywhere."

There was a knock on the doorframe.

"Hey, Jack. Just in time."

"For what?" asked Jack, sitting down.

"For this - okay, dismissed."

After everyone except Katrina and Jack had left, Mike said to Hughes, "Have a good nap?"

"Eventually," he admitted. Mike could see the hickey that the shirt collar barely concealed.

"Uh-huh."

"Michael?"

"Yeah, Kat?"

"Why aren't you out there with J? And Cottontail?"

"Because, for this, they're the best team for the job."

"But I thought you were a SEAL? That you were an expert in 'covert infiltration'?" she asked, stumbling a little over the words.

"Different type of skills. I could get into any place, any time, just about, and take it down, if that was the mission. But that's not what we need here. Schwenke's coming to us. I did my best, laying out an ambush that would've hammered his ass flat without risking the Valley, and it didn't work. He outsmarted me. So, I'm letting J have his shot at him." He shrugged.

"What about me?" asked Hughes.

"Stay back with Nielson. This area can be pretty rough if you don't know your way around." He faced Katrina.

"Besides, if J calls for help, I'm riding along. I think Culcanar could use some fresh meat." He patted the Family axe that had been lent to him.

His feral grin was answered by hers.

=============================

They were right. J's mobile was turned off. He had brought a tablet with him to the hide, one of the hardened ones modified for the Mules. The electronic signature was so minimal, he judged it worth the risk of detection to have updated intel. Now, he tapped Katya on her shoulder. She turned away from the track, twenty meters away and five meters down, to look.

"Coming," he said, pointing at the tablet. It showed their location, and another icon representing the ZIL.

She tapped her ear. "I hear it."

Their plan was simple. A low-powered IED was emplaced under a large chunk of granite hidden by the shrubbery that overgrew the track, about ten meters past their hide. When the ZIL passed over it, Katya would detonate it, hopefully driving the rock up into the transmission or engine and disabling it. The explosion shouldn't be heard over the noise of the engines, making it seem like a genuine accident.

When they dismounted to investigate, Katya would open fire with an FN P90, a compact but powerful weapon designed for special forces, among others. It should clear away the crew quickly.

Not very subtle, but effective. After the IED went off, subtlety went out the window. Speed and superior firepower would carry the day.

If they didn't get out to investigate, well, that was where J came into play. He had changed his appearance again, to that of a local. He would circle around the stopped vehicle, approaching it from the east, away from the Valley. Between the direction and the disguise, he thought he'd be able to either get into the cabin or get the crew out. Either way, they'd then meet his P90.

And if all else failed, and Schwenke managed to detonate the nuke? They were over twenty kilometers, and two significant ridgelines, distant. There shouldn't be any direct blast effects on the Valley, though it might be rough on the tigers that had been moved to this area.

Now J could hear the grumbling diesels, and the crunching bushes as the vehicle bulled its way towards them. He tapped Katya on the shoulder, nodded, gave her a quick smile, and slipped off into the woods to take his position.

Cottontail concentrated on the approaching behemoth. The pad showed it still half a kilometer distant, yet it sounded gigantic!

Don't fuck up, she thought.

You fuck up, you won't get paid. She grinned wryly at that. She couldn't even pretend to herself that the money mattered, any longer. Mouse had taken her pay - what she hadn't spent - and turned it into a nice pile of money. More than enough to live in comfort for several years. Or to take her own revenge on those who'd wronged her.

Fuck up, and you won't live to regret it. No, that didn't matter either. She had long ago resigned herself - no, accepted - no, embraced - the role she played for the Kildar. The hit girl. The infiltrator. And, sometimes, oh so rarely, she was able to exorcise some demons.

She flexed her poison-loaded fingernails. When originally installed, they had been loaded with a derivative of cobra venom; deadly, but an antidote did exist. Soon after Dr. Arensky had arrived, however, she had convinced him to create a new, faster-acting toxin. He had complied willingly enough, though with the warning not to ever scratch herself. "There is no antidote for what I gave you," he had told her. She thought he had lied, perhaps, but it certainly meant that there wasn't anything easily available.

Good.

She hoped she'd be able to introduce Kurt to her new little surprise.

The noises were much louder now. Only a few more seconds.

So why the fuck are you here?

To kill Schwenke? To close that chapter?

No. She was here because -

She gasped involuntarily when it finally smashed its way into view. She'd seen the downloads and studied what little information was available on the ZIL-E 167, but nothing could prepare her for her first sight of it.

Thirty feet long, ten feet tall, ten feet wide, riding on six five-foot-tall tires, the green behemoth dwarfed even the trees along the track. The high-mounted windshield extended across the whole front, with a cabin stretching the entire length of the body. A short ladder led up to the driver's door, and three large windows opened along the side. The engine was obviously mounted at the rear; she could see the vents cut into the sides, and the massive exhaust stacks belching black diesel smoke. As it passed her, she saw another door in the rear, fully tall enough for a man to walk through upright.

She remembered her duty, though, and when the rear axle was passing, she pushed the button. The muffled crump! of the device was barely audible to her over the roaring engines. The horrible grinding of the transmission, however, was sweet music.

Almost instantly, it stopped. Cottontail held her P90 at the ready. Her thumb flipped the safety to 'OFF'.

=============================

"What happened?"

"This old bitch finally had enough, I suppose," said Schwenke. "The transmission's gone." He stood. So close!

"I'm going to look at the engines. Perhaps it's something I can fix. You go look underneath, perhaps we hit a rock." And, in case there's anyone watching us, they'll target you first.

"Ibrahim, I do not like this. Shai'tan has certainly cursed us!"

"Get out and look!" snapped Schwenke. "Now!"

"Y-y-yes, Ibrahim," said Mukhlis, unlatching the passenger's door and dropping heavily to the ground.

Schwenke had no intention of checking the engine. He'd heard enough terminal transmissions to know that this one was never going to move again. Instead, he removed a set of keys from under his shirt and began unlocking the case that contained the weapon.

=============================

"Fuck me!"

Cottontail could see the shadow of a man walking around in the cabin through the windows and heard another on the ground underneath the truck. But she didn't know how many more were inside and couldn't take the chance of warning them. It was up to J, now.

=============================

Mamuka Kurkumuli was a farmer who had managed to survive the short, but nasty, Russian-Georgian war without losing his land. Wearing a faded, handmade shirt and battered blue jeans, he had heard the loud diesel engines pass his property and had come to investigate.

"Ghmert'i Ch'emi!" My God! He'd never seen anything like it! It even dwarfed the new fire engine over in Alerrso, the one that foreigner had bought.

"Stop right there!" called a voice harshly in Russian.

He stopped. Too many Russian soldiers had given him that command for him to disobey it now.

"Hello!" he answered in his friendliest voice. "That's quite a machine you have there!"

"Who are you? What do you want?" He could see the speaker now, leaning out a door set into the back of the vehicle. Shit! One of those damn blackass Chechens! And he was carrying a rifle, too! They were the ones to worry about; at least Russians could usually be bought off with a bottle and a meal, but the real hard-core Chechens, the ones who made it this far south, weren't supposed to drink, and never ate anything that wasn't - shit, what was the term? Halal, that's right.

"I am Mamuka Kurkumuli, and you are on my land. I heard your machine and came to see." He held up his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture.

"Do you know anything about transmissions?"

Mamuka had to laugh. "My tractor belonged to my grandfather. I have torn it down and rebuilt it at least a dozen times. What do you think?"

"You might be useful," the Chechen acknowledged. "My associate is underneath, examining it. You go look too."

"At once!" And Mamuka practically ran to the odd machine.

"Back here," said another, younger, frightened voice in the darkness.

"Hold on, let my eyes adjust," protested Mamuka, peering between the massive wheels. Gradually, he could make out a figure, looking up - up! - into a shattered transmission casing. Gingerly, he made his way towards the other man.

"What did you hit?" The enormous casing was completely split, the sweet-smelling, reddish transmission fluid dripping slowly into a puddle on the ground.

The man shook his head. "No idea. Can it be fixed? It's very important that we get - where we're going," he finished lamely.

Ignoring the obvious gaffe, Mamuka said, "It can be. Do you see any pieces on the ground? I'd hate to weld it closed incomplete."

The man knelt. "I don't see any -"

Whatever he was going to say was cut off as J quickly whipped a garrote around his neck and pulled. His trachea was instantly crushed, then the rough wire dug through the jugular. Blood erupted, adding to the red pool. The unmistakable odor of sphincters relaxing in death added to the sweet and coppery smells.

One down.

After a moment, checking to see that there was no blood on his clothes, Mamuka stepped out from under the machine.

"Well?"

"I can fix it," Mamuka agreed. "But I need my tools. I'll be back in -"

"No!" The command was harsh, peremptory. "We have some tools in here. You can use these."

Mamuka shrugged. "Saves me a walk home," he said happily. "Can I come see what you have? It'll be easier than trying to describe them to you."

The Chechen lowered his rifle. "Come up," he granted, grudgingly.

Mamuka scrambled up the ladder and into the truck. A narrow corridor passed between two engines before opening into the main cabin. A large wooden box sat along one side, cover partially ajar.

"What's that?" he asked curiously, taking a step toward it.

"None of your business," snapped the Chechen, moving between Mamuka and the box. "Toolbox is forward."

"Right." Properly chastened, Mamuka lowered his eyes and shuffled carefully past.

"Wow, what a view. Must be amazing, driving this!" he exclaimed when he reached the front. Leaning on the door, he extended a single finger down the outside panel.

"The tools are there," the Chechen gestured with the rifle. "Get them and get to work."

"Yes, yes, of course," Mamuka agreed, picking up the meter-long box.

Walking past, J swung the heavy box into the rifle, knocking it out of the Chechen's hands.

"Is that you, Kurt?" J chided. "I didn't recognize you under the stench. Very effective disguise, that. Nobody can get close enough to see you because they can't stand the smell." J had dropped into a ready position, hidden knife drawn.

"I should have known," spat Schwenke. "The Kildar's pet agent. Tired of playing with your hooker? Think you can still run with the big dogs?" Two knives had materialized in Schwenke's hands, and he circled clockwise toward the box.

J slashed out. "Not so quick, Kurt! Stay away from the bomb."

"Or what? Your girlfriend will get me?" Kurt laughed maniacally. "Where is the little bitch, anyway? Shitting her pants?"

"You know," said J, conversationally, "She may be young, but she's shown more courage the past few days than I believe you have ever shown." J kept himself between Schwenke and the bomb. He could see the frustration building in Kurt's eyes.

"What's wrong, Kurt? You want the bomb? You think blowing yourself up will be adequate revenge?" He shook his head. "Such a limited imagination."

"You think I really care about the Keldara? Ha! No, I just want to take out your whore! Where is she, J? I want her to see you die." Schwenke, mongoose-fast, dashed in and jabbed at J. Only a desperate move stopped the blade, deflecting it into a joint between two wall panels. Schwenke tried to wrest it loose, giving J an opening. His knife darted out and connected with Schwenke's side, but he ducked away too quickly for the knife to penetrate deeply.

The broken blade of Kurt's knife protruded from the wall.

"Now the odds are even," said J. "Feel good?" He nodded at the wound in the sociopath's side.

Schwenke threw the broken handle away and tossed the remaining knife to his right hand. "Even? You wish!" He started backing toward the front of the ZIL. J followed, cautiously. It wouldn't do to get too close, but whatever he was going for couldn't be good.

"Giving up already, Kurt? I'm sure the Kildar would let you live. Well, perhaps not. You have been quite a pain in his ass."

"Good! Tell you what, J, why don't you give me that little bitch and we'll call it even? That's all I want, really. I have no grudge against you personally. I'm a professional; let's swap. You give me the girl, I'll give you the nuke, we call it even and I do a fade like I always do."

"Will you now," said J, just as reasonably. "No, no deal. And I don't think I want to just give up Katya. I've spent too long training her to simply walk away."

"Bad tradecraft, J. I am surprised." Kurt was still inching closer to the front.

J shrugged. "Perhaps. Why don't you stop right there, Kurt?"

"Or what? You'll throw your little knife at me? Then what, J?"

"I won't miss," said J, grimly.

"No," agreed Kurt, "You probably won't. But I might have a few surprises left." Without warning he dove to the side, grabbed something and threw from the floor. J spotted the tiny knife and dove as well. The blade whicked through the space he had just vacated, barely nicking his left shoulder. The blade was very sharp and spinning just right to slice through the thin peasant's clothing he was wearing. If he'd been wearing a heavier coat, it wouldn't have mattered. The cut barely broke the skin as it was, a quarter centimeter long and only a millimeter deep.

"Bad move, Kurt!" he called, rising back to his feet.

"I think not," answered Schwenke cockily. "Flip me the bird with your left hand, and I'll give up."

"That's it? That was your best shot?"

"You know you want to do it, J. Just show a little emotion for once."

"Why not?" said J and raised his left arm. "Goodbye, Kurt." He clenched his fist, then - his arm dropped to his side.

"Yes, J, goodbye."

J looked at his rebellious arm.

"What was on that?"

"Oh, come now J. Surely you can reason it out."

J thought for a moment, then calmly said, "Curare." He did some mental calculation and made his decision. He only spent a moment in regret - he should have taken the tools, ducked back under the vehicle, then lured Schwenke down to 'help'. Then Katya could have taken him out with ease. Ah well. If wishes were fishes and all that.

"Very good! It only just cut you, but it is more -"

Whatever Schwenke said after that was lost. Forcing his resisting legs into action, J turned and ran for the rear door. Reaching it at full speed, he burst through and flew a half-dozen meters, crashing into the undergrowth behind the ZIL.

Schwenke appeared in the door. "What a pity. I wanted to watch you die, face-to-face, so I could tell the bitch what it looked like."

=============================

Cottontail was moving from her hide even before J hit the ground, before any conscious decision could be made. She simply reacted on a deep, emotional level she didn't know existed, the combat drugs already triggered and pumping into her system.

"BASTARD!" The shriek split the woods. Birds that had settled back to their perches scattered to the winds, adding their cries to her battle roar.

"Ah, Katya Ivanova. I knew you were around here somewhere," said Schwenke, dropping lightly to the ground as Cottontail stormed out of the hide.

"Come to say goodbye to your master? Better hurry. He-is-dying," he sing-songed.

"FUCK YOU SCHWENKE!" She tore out of the woods at full, enhanced speed.

Lithely, he stepped to one side, avoiding the charge and the all-too-well-remembered fingernails. Like a picador taunting a bull, he simply stepped away from every attack, weathering the brief though intense rush her combat drugs gave her.

"I told J I had a few surprises still," he said as she gathered herself for another run. "Those marvelous reactions of yours? It's amazing what you can find on the black market, even state-of-the art pharmaceuticals."

"Just wait until I sink my claws into you," she said, panting. The drugs seemed to slow time and boosted her reactions, but they had a terrible cost.

"Oh yes, your lovely fingernails." He reached under his robe, pulling out a small, empty syringe. "Anti-venom. Cobra-specific, though I was promised that it would be mildly effective against most others." He smiled coldly. "Go ahead. Take your best shot." He spread his arms wide.

"SON-OF-A-BITCH! DIE YOU WORTHLESS FUCKER!" And she charged in one more time, aiming for his heart.

Schwenke didn't try to stop her. He simply moved his arms so she couldn't reach his face or neck. He forgot that she was once a whore, and whores fought dirty.

He forgot his balls.

With a last burst of her enhanced speed, she changed her attack, lowering her hands and grabbing, hard. She twisted her hand, nails parting the fabric of his pants as if they were so much rotting cloth. Her fingernails sank deep into his groin, injecting their poison, then closed. Flesh tore. Her hand twisted again. Flesh parted. Blood spurted.

Cottontail hit the ground, rolled, and popped to her feet behind Schwenke who was down on his knees, hands clenched over his genitals, howling. Or, where they should be.

"Missing something?" She held up a hand, glistening redly. "And it's not cobra venom any longer, Kurt. I'm afraid that little cocktail won't do you any good at all." She threw the contents of her hand as far as possible into the woods. Let the insects consume that putrid flesh.

He moaned, octaves higher than normal. "Bitch!" he spat, falling over.

She smiled. "You know it." She looked into the eyes of the dying killer and saw - emotion.

Not respect.

Hatred. Utter, total hatred.

Good.

At least she had given him something, one true emotion.

Staying well away from him, she hurried to J's side.

He was curled into a near-fetal position, semi-paralyzed. "Valkyrie," he whispered, fighting to breathe. Katya didn't know if he was calling for help, or thought she was come to take him to Valhalla. She cleansed her hands on a remaining patch of snow, then moved down and closer until she could cradle his head on her lap, tears falling unashamedly onto him. She couldn't lose him. Now she knew why she was here, why she had turned so frantic when she saw J fling himself out of the truck.

It was him.

The first man who had treated her as a person. The first man who had offered her respect. The first man who hadn't looked on her as a tool, or a toy. Who had taken her, broken as she was, made her whole again, and given her more than revenge. Given her purpose, and the tools to do the job.

The first man that she truly loved.

"Medic," she whispered. "Medic. Medic. Medic! MEDIC! MEDIC!!!" She was screaming to the heavens by the last and kept screaming long after her voice had given out.

=============================

Every second had been picked up and transmitted back to a rapt audience in the Cave. Orders were being given and the Keldara moving even as Katya's battle raged. Tammy and Naida, with Kira and Mist aboard, were in the air and screaming for the track. All that slowed her approach was the narrowness of the LZ, and she solved that by simply chopping through the overhang with the rotor. D'Allaird would bitch, but the Valkyrie was needed.

Valkyrie settled in heavily. Mist and Kara jumped out before the rotors hardly began to slow and were at J's side.

"What did he use?"

"I don't know," managed Katya, hoarsely. "He can barely breathe, he can't move - there's only a scratch!"

Kara and Mist exchanged a single look. "Curare," said Mist. "It's listed as Herr Schwenke's favorite from his days with the Stasi."

"Auto-doc," replied Kara.

The two easily lifted J and quickly trotted him to the helicopter, where he was swiftly attached to the auto-doc. An oxygen mask was put over his mouth and nose, and the machine began rhythmically compressing his chest, forcing air in and out of his lungs.

Katya stood, waiting for the Team to take control of the bomb.

"Where's Schwenke?" was the first question asked by Piatras. She looked around. There was a large bloody patch, and an impression of a body, but no body.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I was watching over J."

"He can't have gone far," said Oleg, softly. "We'll find him."

But they never did.

=============================

Schwenke regained consciousness much, much later. How much later, he didn't know, but it was dark, with just a hint of light where he lay in the cave's entrance. He was surrounded by an unfamiliar musky odor, a close, animal scent.

He could barely move. Whatever toxin that miserable bitch had pumped him with was painful, slow to disperse, and very, very effective. If he hadn't had a final dose of his black-market booster, he wouldn't have made it away from the track and into the woods, much less to - well, wherever he was.

Funny. He didn't remember finding a cave.

He remembered staggering through trees that seemed to reach out for him, then collapsing. He wasn't sure, but he thought he crawled for a while.

Still. If it was dark, then he was probably safe. He had access to a few hidden bank accounts. All he had to do was get into a town. Then a phone. Then Sweden. There, they could fix him up good as new.

Gingerly, he checked his injury. Oh, was that slut going to pay. Hormone therapy the rest of his life, it looked like.

Fine, fine. He'd deal with that later. There had to be a compatible DNA donor somewhere. He'd paid enough already. Worst case, he could change.

He shivered. It wasn't that cold. It was fairly warm in this cave. Must be the blood loss. And the drugs in his system battling each other.

That had been closer than he wanted to admit. She was far, far more skilled than the last time they met. Still. His plans were afoot to ensure that, no matter what happened to him, he would be revenged upon that dammed Kildar.

He shivered again, more strongly. A cold sweat erupted from his brow. What was going on here?

He moaned.

Two large, green eyes popped open two meters from him. They rose from near the ground, stopping a meter above the ground and staring at him unblinkingly. Now, he could hear a faint chuffing, as if a large animal was breathing. A gentle pad-pad-pad, and he could see the outline of a large, furry head.

The tiger, unhurriedly, began to feed. It started on the legs, where it had left off. It ignored the screams, and feeble wriggling, of its meal. Though it was a little confused; surely the spine had been bitten through?

No matter. It crunched down to get at the tasty marrow inside the long bones. Dinner was dinner. Even if it did taste a little funny.
CHAPTER 47

Near the Valley; OSOL

April 15

"Where's Schwenke?" demanded Mike. He paced back and forth then stopped, suddenly aware of his actions. This wasn't something he wanted to get in the habit of doing; it showed nervousness and you never, ever, did that in front of the troops. He turned instead to Oleg, forcing him to answer the rhetorical question.

"I don't know, Kildar," replied Oleg uncomfortably. "We haven't been able to find his body yet." The one-legged man-giant was covered with mud and grass stains. He checked his BFT, as if an update would have come in the past eight seconds since last he peeked.

"You telling me he got up and walked away?" The disbelief was clear.

"It looks that way," said Oleg.

"How the fuck does a man with no balls - literally! - walk away?" He shook his head. "Never mind, just keep looking."

"Yes, Kildar! We, ah, did find those."

"Those?"

"His balls. Had to fight off a couple ravens, but they weren't too interested and flew off without having to be shot." He turned and jogged away, back to the search.

"Piatras!" Mike had already turned to his next victim.

"Kildar?" asked the young militia man. He blinked rapidly in exhaustion. The battle - ha! - at the caves, the harrowing ride home, and this search, all piled on scant rest, made for short nerves. Add to that a nuke not fifty meters away, and anyone would be on edge.

"Where's Cottontail?"

"On the other side of the big truck. Master Chief Adams is debriefing her." He pointed, not looking. Not even a glance. His voice was stilted, as if giving the information out - No. It was as if he'd been ordered to keep quiet. That had to be someone pretty senior.

Mike didn't have to guess who.

"Right, thanks." He walked around to see - did he really see Adams give Cottontail a hug? He blinked. What the hell?

"What's the scoop, Chief?" he said, announcing his presence.

Before Adams could get a word out, Cottontail broke away and moved swiftly, as only she could manage, towards him, bloodied hands outstretched.

He barely had to time to think, Oh fuck me! when her arms wrapped around him. He almost pulled away before, gingerly, unsure of the exact protocol here, given his 'interesting' history with her, he returned the hug.

Not that he could have pulled away, she was clinging to him so tightly. Then something inside him echoed the feeling, and his embrace tightened fiercely. "I'm here. I always have been," he whispered. She stiffened for a moment at the kindness in his voice, then felt the honesty behind the words and finally accepted them. He could feel her body shake as she fought for breath, great heaving sobs, as she - cried?

He'd never been a father. But now he had an idea, a faint echo, of why the Chief had taken the plunge so many, many times: to care for someone who needed you at a time like this.

"Hey, hey, now," he said, gently. "It's gonna be okay. You did good, Cotton - Katya. You did good."

What felt like hours was only minutes. Mike looked over at his closest friend and mouthed, "What the fuck?" but the Chief just looked at him, shrugged, and smiled, as if being hugged by a walking sociopathic biotechnology experiment happened every day. It was also the smile of a father acknowledging a secret, one he would treasure and torture Mike with until the end of time, given the chance. But, for now, the choice to go on living won and he kept his mouth firmly shut.

"How's J?" he finally managed to ask, releasing her. His freed hands wiped the remaining tears from her eyes as she sniffled.

"Kira said that he'd taken a large dose of curare," she replied in a broken whisper. "The cut itself isn't too bad, but the knife had received multiple coats of the poison."

"Shit. That's nasty stuff, and it doesn't take much to truly fuck up your day. They use that stuff in some surgeries, though, and maybe his dose isn't more than that. We've got to get him right."

"That's what she said, too, Kildar. But she's hopeful that J will recover."

"Recover? How? He's good, but he's not magical." He held her elbows and looked directly into her eyes. "You have to prepare yourself, Katya. Just in case."

Dropping her eyes, she leaned into him, weak as a kitten, for a moment. Then she straightened, stamped her foot, and looked back up at him.

"J," she managed, before her voice caught. She stopped, gathered herself, and started again. "J had me study various poisons, their effects, and their antidotes."

"I didn't think there is an antidote for curare," Mike said, puzzled. He was dammed sure there wasn't. He'd used it often enough himself.

"There is and there isn't. Physostigmine is one compound which, if injected intravenously, will temporarily reverse curare's effects. And there are some derivatives of aminopryridine that can have reversing effects. But neither of these are commonly available."

Mike was shaking his head. "And I doubt the hospitals in Tbilisi stock them either."

"No," agreed Katya. "They don't." Before he could ask, she explained. "As part of the background for any mission, J had me memorize the stocks of anti-toxins at the local hospitals, so I could select the most effective poisons to use in case I was out of my own." She waggled her fingers. "But there is one non-pharmacological cure."

"Oh?" This would be enlightening.

"Curare works on nerves, preventing them from transmitting or receiving, especially the nerves that control respiration. It affects all, but primarily those."

"Knew that." He flashed back to a face turning blue after he'd fired a curare-laced dart into the target, while Adams had hit his mistress - the daughter of Someone Important stateside who'd been kidnapped, gone Stockholm and fallen into bed with her captor - with something less lethal. How they'd gotten out - he blinked, returning to here and now.

"What you probably don't know is that the human body will, in time, rid itself of the curare. The problem is, the stronger the dose, the longer it takes, and once respiration shuts down -"

"It's game over. You still haven't told me the cure, Katya."

"Artificial respiration. If you can keep the victim on artificial respiration until they clear the toxin from their system..."

"Then they're cured? Is it that simple?"

"There may be some residual effects, but overall, yes, Kildar. That is why he asked for Valkyrie. But," she blushed slightly, "I panicked a little and didn't remember until I was actually calling for her."

He snapped his fingers. "The auto-doc."

She nodded. "It will keep him alive until they get to hospital, then they can continue with their machines, as long as is needed."

"And what about Schwenke?"

She looked troubled for about half a second, then smiled sheepishly. "I tore off his balls and injected him with the toxin Dr. Arensky created for me. He should be dead, but he's not here."

"There's a blood trail," added Oleg, who had approached quietly and stood to the side. "He won't get far; it's a lot of blood. Unless he took something beforehand, he'll bleed out before he gets too far."

"We've underestimated him before," said Mike, warningly. "Pull anyone you need to find him. Dogs, every hunter in the Six Families, hell, raid the Gurkhas, I don't care! I want to see his body. I want you to bring me back his dammed head!"

"Yes, Kildar!" The massive team leader turned lightly and practically sprinted away from them.

Mike turned to Katya. "I suppose you want your money now?" It was half a test, half serious.

She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "No, Kildar. Right now, all I want is a shower, then a ride to Tbilisi." She looked down, then back up, defiantly. "I will be there for J when he recovers. You will not -"

"I wouldn't dream of it," said Mike quickly, before the unspoken threat could emerge and damage the fragile - friendship? No, more like kinship - that emerged today. "Clean up. Take all the time you need. I'll have Dragon stand by to fly you to the hospital. And when you and J are ready to come home -"

Her face lit with the first genuine smile Mike had seen on her in months.

" - You can, ooft!"

"Thank you, Kildar," she said, the gratitude evident as she hugged him again and squeezed whatever he was going to say right out of him.

Chief Adams hid a grin.

=============================

"That's a big fucking bomb," said Adams , staring at the plain wooden crate, still in the back of the ZIL-E. For all its simplicity, it seemed ominous.

"No shit," agreed Vanner. "And those crazy bastards had some that were bigger. Good thing they moved before they were ready. I'd've used as many nukes as it took, trip-hammer style, to flatten everything in my path." He illustrated the point with his hands, opening and blossoming out, mimicking a row of explosions, culminating in one that took both hands. "Bang-bang-bang-bang-bang. Problem solved. Georgia blames Russia, US backs Georgia, pure chaos, and then you could snatch any territory you wanted right out from under their noses."

"Well, they chose the right beast to carry it," Mike said, looking around, impressed. Considering the cold war technology, it had proved remarkably durable. It was certainly large enough. "Wonder if we can salvage these? They'd make superb troop transports for the winter. Slower than crap, I'm sure, but I guarantee you nobody else would even come close to their mobility."

"Maybe," said Vanner. "They're both going to take work, this one less. The other one looks like Swiss cheese. Won't be cheap. Maybe have to scrap one."

"After this mission, I think we can finally stop worrying about money," said Mike. "You may be right about the other, though. It looked pretty sorry. If it can't be rebuilt, salvage what you can. Anything else, well, I know of a little depot that's been used for midnight requisitions..." He trailed off, lost in thought.

"That's good to hear, about the money," said Vanner, enthusiastically. "I have some ideas that -"

"Whoa, whoa there! After the mission, Pat. One bomb left, remember?" Mike slammed the brakes on his Intel specialist. If he let him continue, he'd end up having to sign something else. He'd had enough surprises.

Whatever Vanner was going to reply was lost. Dr. Arensky was inspecting the weapon, with Jack, and the discussion had been getting louder and more heated. When a nuke was the center of discussion, that sort of thing certainly focused attention.

"Problem?" asked Mike.

Jack looked up. "Maybe."

"And I say not!" said Arensky.

"Okay, Doctor. Jack? You first."

"We know there aren't motion sensors on this - at least, they aren't active, or they would have detonated it already. Between Katya's IED ripping apart the tranny, and J and Schwenke's little tête-à-tête, and all our people in and out, well, let's just say I've been waiting for that suspiciously scary ominous hummmm sound for a while."

Arensky muttered, "It beeps, you... Why it beeps, I don't know, it was meant for a missile and who'd hear the beeping while it's in flight? Silly engineers, watching one too many James Bond movie..." He trailed off.

"And when were you going to tell us this?" asked Mike angrily. "You notice that we're standing next to it?"

"Oops?" said Jack. "Payback's a bitch? Sir! Anyways, you're the one who keeps telling me what a nutcase this Schwenke character is!"

"Okay, okay. We were stupid and got away with it. So what?"

"So, we don't know if any other triggers were armed. Timer? Remote detonator?"

Mike paled. He had all the experience he wanted with both those items, coming seconds - and a fifty-fifty guess - from incinerating Paris once.

"So how do we solve it?" he said. He paled. "The bastard's still missing. What if he has the remote, or a cell phone?"

Vanner said, "No worries there. I shut down the cell towers in the area - they all run off our juice, anyway - and I had the girls blanket the area in EM 'noise' on all but the frequencies we're actually using at the time." He looked smug, showing off his techie prowess.

"We don't because there are no triggers like that!" said Arensky, full of the self-assurance that came with usually being the smartest person within fifty miles.

"Doctor?"

"This is a hundred fifty kiloton, fission/fusion bomb. Powerful, yes, but also not high tech, even by former Soviet standards. It would be extremely difficult for Chechens to rig any additional detonation systems, just because it's so primitive. All we need to do is open up the box and ensure that the detonator circuits are disabled." He reached for the lid to raise it, and Jack's hand slapped down.

"And I say, that would be purely stupid! It's Schwenke we're dealing with, dead, dying, or other!"

Mike raised a hand. "Doctor, I have to agree with the Major. I've seen them rigged with just such a device, and we simply can't take the chance."

"But -"

"I'm not in the habit of repeating myself, Doctor, so no arguments, please. This discussion is over. Chief, I need a work party to load this into Valkyrie as soon as she returns. We know it can be moved; let's get it to Novorossijisk as quickly as possible and let the professionals handle it."

"What if there's a timer?" asked Arensky.

"All the more reason to get it out of this Valley, yes?"

"Pretty rough on Tammy if it goes off mid-flight," said Vanner, sotto voce.

"Yeah," agreed Mike, just as quietly. "But she'll never know it." Louder, he said, "Jack, hope you don't have any plans for tonight."

"Well -"

"Break 'em. You're bomb-sitting again. Consider this an order, Major. You're all I can spare, and we need official control all the way to the delivery site."

"Shit. Can I have five minutes?"

Mike consulted his watch. "You can have fifteen; Valkyrie should be back by then." He grinned mischievously. "Good luck. And - yeah, payback is a bitch, ain't it? I'm a SEAL, Marine, and we know all about payback. Just ask the Chief sometime. Half of his stories may be bullshit, but you never know."

=============================

"Colonel Pierson, it's the Kildar."

"Go ahead, Mike. We're secure, line is clear."

"Got another one. That makes an even two dozen. It's en route to the ship, with Hughes riding shotgun on it."

"How'd you - never mind, I don't want to know."

"Not gonna tell you anyway," said Mike. "But you need to inform the receiving end that this bomb may be active. It was twenty klicks from the Valley when we stopped it, and the psycho controlling it may have had enough time to start a timer or rig other booby-traps."

"Oh, they're going to love this."

"I'm sure they will," agreed Mike. "Probably a good idea to have them meet the chopper well away from the other nukes."

"I need to make some calls," said Pierson.

"I believe you do." There was a click, and the line disconnected.

Deep in the Pentagon, Pierson called for his aide.

"Anderson! Get your ass in here! We've got another situation! Three guesses who with, and the first two don't count." Again, he didn't add.
CHAPTER 48

Moscow; The Caravanserai

April 16

Gereshk and his men were safely ensconced in Moscow proper. Not in the outskirts; there, though it would be easier to escape, they could have been found more easily. Instead, they had taken residence in a disused warehouse near Komsomolsky Square, less than four kilometers from the headquarters of the Russian Federal Security Service in Lubyanka Square.

That was well within the range of the weapon, even though it was outside the actual fireball. The Emir had insisted that their largest bomb be taken on this mission. Gereshk had been very careful to get that information from Ibrahim before he left.

He was still torn about his decision for their location to detonate the device. On one hand, if Chechnik was anywhere within about twenty kilometers when the bomb exploded, he was dead.

Perhaps not immediately, though, which was a pleasant thought to Gereshk. Heat, radiation, or the building being demolished by the massive overpressure, didn't matter. They were all likely to be fatal, especially at the relatively close distance, which would gut the center of Moscow and send millions of unbelievers to their Shai'tan-ordained doom.

Then there was the damage to the Lesser Satan's rail services. Komsomolsky Square was a major rail terminus, with three rail stations and a metro station. In addition, the Leningraskaya Hotel and the Moscovsky department store, along with scores of smaller shops and restaurants, were located within the square. It was a major destination; the casualties among the infidels would be enormous, and the damage to the railways, businesses, tourism, banking, and, yes, even the oppressive security forces, potentially crippling.

And yet. There was a certain appeal in having Chechnik simply incinerated in the burst. He remembered cartoons, probably Ami, showing creatures turn to ash after explosions. How he would rejoice to see that, even if he died only seconds later!

For that to happen, he would need to be much closer. Within a kilometer. The continuing build-up of the city since his last visit was astounding but would deflect and absorb some of the explosion. And security would be that much stricter, closer to the diseased heart of the rotten city.

Still not much of an issue, but it would make escape for himself much more difficult. A truck, loitering on the roadside, is much less suspicious if the driver is sitting behind the wheel, reading a newspaper and waiting for his appointment.

Not that Gereshk planned to escape. He wanted to be present, with Chechnik, see the lying prick's eyes when he finally realized that Gereshk had taken his revenge. He wondered what would be passing through Chechnik's mind at that last moment before oblivion.

Plasma.

He giggled. His men turned and smiled at his private joke. Perhaps he should share this story with them, so they... yes.

Only he would die here. Not if he could help it. He had an obligation to the Emir. He had decided to send them back at sundown tomorrow. They would be given money, and very precise instructions, and sent into the crowds, to mingle with them and use the very rail system he planned to destroy to make their way home. And they would all carry letters to tell his story, to show the world that being a selfish, lying, greedy prick would only earn you the wrath of Allah.

The irony was exquisite, and he chuckled again. His men smiled again, though a bit confused. They were in the heart of the enemy, bearing the Spear of Allah, and no one knew it. They would strike a blow that would sweep the Tower attacks away to the dustbin of history. The faithful would rejoice in the streets for weeks after this!

He checked his phone again. Still nothing, no messages, no missed calls. Too dangerous to initiate contact before the appointed time. It could expose them all, if anyone was watching. Very well, he could be patient. One more day. Then, if he received no contact from the Emir by the following noon, he would execute the plan. After his men were on their way, Allah Willing.

Still.

Which plan? Stay, and hope the explosion caught Chechnik? Or move closer, risk exposure, but be sure? Perhaps he would call Chechnik himself and announce it, even as he detonated the device. That would be milk and honey to his soul as he achieved his martyrdom. He would feel nothing, but Chechnik might have quite a few seconds to know from whose hand the blow fell.

Delicious.

It was quite the decision to make.

=============================

The Intel team was brainstorming. Pain was showing as was the exhaustion from the short shifts and endless hours of sifting data. Data that should have been given, not stolen or forced from the hands of supposed allies. The frustration was starting to tell.

"Again." The hand slammed down on a rare clean spot on the workstation. The rest was covered with half-filled mugs of cold tea and coffee which jumped at the impact, splashing onto the already cluttered floor.

"Grez, we've gone over this a dozen times already," one of the girls pleaded.

"Again, I said!" Grez growled back.

Stella sighed. "You really need to get some sack time, Grez."

"I slept earlier!"

"That's not what I meant," said Stella, arching a brow. The raunchiness of the cloistered group was near a breaking point.

As Grez turned red, Anisa said, "We think that Gereshk has gone to ground. Since we didn't know what he was using for transport, we couldn't use any 'eye-in-the-sky' assets to localize him. There's simply too much traffic in the target areas, which are guesses anyways. And too big for us to follow. There are only five of us in here at a time. We need to narrow it down to a specific target of interest to have any chance, if not of finding them then at least eliminating areas to move on to others."

"What about gamma scans?" asked Kseniya.

"Too many false positives," answered Stella. "Anything radioactive will give off gamma radiation, in some quantity. Even if we had the updated reads on the refurbished nukes. We might have gotten lucky with the others, since they only needed minor repairs. But Dr. Arensky said that this one would have needed major work and the 'gamma halo' could have changed up to five percent. More if they added extra shielding."

"But we know the size of the bomb he carried, yes? And the Russians have all the characteristics, the profile, yes?" said Grez.

"Probably. But we haven't received it," replied Stella. She looked as pissed as Grez at that news.

Anisa asked, "Why not? I thought we were getting all their data?"

Stella shook her head sadly. "We are, but their systems are so completely screwed up, we're getting it in dribs and drabs."

"The manifest?" suggested Kseniya.

"That, we have. But it only lists size, type, and serial number."

"Okay, so gamma scans are out. For now. Why do we think he's gone to ground?" Grez tried to pace, kicking aside the accumulated trash of endless watches. The other girls looked a bit jealous that she had something to take out her frustrations on, as well as the room to stretch out.

"He's had enough time to get to Moscow," said Anisa. "It's been four days. Assuming that is his final destination."

"So? We know that Loki has a way of causing mischief for all, not just the side of right," said Stella.

"True," agreed Anisa. "Still, we cannot search the entire distance between Kek-Usn and Moscow. Too fucking big." Anisa used the borrowed American word for emphasis; no one in here would tell on her for using such crudity.

"And the Russians certainly can't," added Kseniya. "Or won't. Idiots, if the latter."

"So that leaves us where? Searching a city of ten million inhabitants and eleven hundred square kilometers from two thousand kilometers away?"

"Grez, if it was easy, the Kildar wouldn't need us," said Anisa, garnering a laugh for her effort. "Not that we're being very effective right now. I'd make another joke about the Mice, but my brain is just like pudding and might leak out if I laugh too hard."

After the laughter had died away, Grez said, "So what do we know about Bursuk Gereshk? Why was he chosen for this mission ahead of others? Did he volunteer? Does Qays know anything?"

Kseniya called up his bio on her screen without really seeing what she was reading. "Age thirty-four, unmarried, no known family. Served in Russian Ground Forces, four years, final two plus at Anadyr after expulsion from MMS, now MCTS. Discharged upon completion of term, next surfaces -"

"Back up," interrupted Grez. "What's MMS, or MCTS?"

"Ah - Military Commanders Training School. Formerly Moscow Military School."

"Someone thought he had a brain worthy of cultivation. Why was he expelled?" Grez' pacing stopped.

Tap tap tap. "The public file simply lists 'Unsuitable attitude'. Hold on, I'll see what I can dig up."

Tap tap tap. Servers whined as Anisa hacked and burned her way into the supposedly secure files. Three minutes later: "Got it! We're in! Transferring control, Kseniya."

"Right." A few seconds passed. "School records say that he refused to relinquish his copy of the Qur'an to the Commandant when it was - oh!"

"What?" asked Grez.

"You'll never guess who turned Gereshk in to the Commandant."

"Probably not," remarked Grez dryly. "So why don't you just tell me?"

"Cadet Erkin Chechnik."

"No shit?" blurted Anisa.

"No shit," answered Kseniya. "Date stamps all correct, no signs of tampering. The PDF files show documents that have the right dates - no, if this is disinformation, it was done at the time, not added later."

"I think we know what's motivating Gereshk," said Stella. "But that doesn't help us narrow down his hide."

"This might," said Kseniya. "The MCTS is located in Moscow, so -"

"So Gereshk spent the better part of two years living in Moscow," finished Stella. Where, exactly, is MCTS?"

Tap-tap-tap. "It's part of the Yaroslavsky District, in the North-Eastern Administrative Okrug -"

"Okrug?" said Anisa.

"It doesn't translate well. Region? Area?"

"Okrug. Whatever." Another American word that they'd grabbed. It covered so much and fit so many situations! Priceless.

" - of Moscow," finished Kseniya.

"Seems like we might have a starting point," said Grez. "Maybe even a bullseye. Revenge is a pretty good motivator."

"Maybe," said Stella, punching up the data on the Okrug. "But it's still a pretty big chunk - the Okrug itself is over a hundred square kilometers, and a million plus people. And it's still over two thousand kilometers away. And we still don't have all our feeds."

"But the District that MCTS is in is smaller, right?" asked Grez.

"Oh, much smaller," agreed Stella. "But still much too large for the Keldara to handle alone."

"Who said the Keldara will be doing it alone?" said Grez. "I think Colonel Chechnik would be interested to know about his old schoolmate, don't you?"

"Any bets on whether he runs or stays?" asked Stella. Unfortunately, there were no takers, but a few giggles.

=============================

"Chechnik." The speakerphone in the command center carried his voice to Mike as well as Nielson and Vanner, both of whom were there simply to observe.

"Does the name Bursuk Gereshk mean anything to you, scumbag?" Mike's voice was harsh over the scrambled satellite line.

"Bursuk Gereshk? He's, how is it said, a 'person of interest' in your investigations, correct?"

"Nothing else? No old memories?"

"Old memories? No." Although something was tickling the back of his mind...

"Tell me, Erkin - where did you study? Once you joined the Army, that is. When some corrupt jackass of a political appointee decided that you deserved to be an officer."

If Chechnik was surprised by the turn of the conversation, he didn't show it. "The Moscow Military School. It's called some other name now, but it's still - Oh, shit."

"Think of something? Something you feel like sharing?"

"Gereshk. Second year. I turned him in to the commandant's office for having a copy of the Qur'an." The shock of the memory returning was in his voice.

"No shit? Wow. And I wonder how it is that my Intel girls came to me with that little tidbit before my supposed ally, hmm?"

"Kildar, it was a long time ago! I had totally forgotten about it!"

"Just another betrayal, eh, Chechnik? Boy, they start teaching you fuckers early, don't they?"

"It wasn't that way! There were rules!"

"Then why don't you tell me just what way it was?"

"I found out about that dammed book by accident! Once I learned of it, well, the school's code required me to report it or I would be punished as well, to the same severity!"

"To save your skinny ass, you turned in a man, a fellow cadet, who had never done anything to you, is that it?"

"That's not how I would put it, Kildar -"

"In case I haven't made it perfectly clear, I really don't give a flying fuck how you would put it!" bellowed Mike. "We're playing with the lives of millions - millions! - of your countrymen, Chechnik! And while I wouldn't give two red cents for the current political leadership of your country, my president doesn't seem to have as much of a problem with them. So, I'm trying to avoid doing a preemptive regime change!"

There didn't seem to be anything Chechnik could say to that, so he remained silent.

"No platitudes, Chechnik? No protestations? Nothing?"

Silence still.

"Maybe you can learn. And you did give us the head's up about the potential ambush. I guess we can give you this one - I mean, who can reasonably expect you to remember every person you've ever betrayed?"

More silence.

"Here's what you're going to do, Chechnik." Mike checked the manifest he was holding. "You will find the precise radiological profile for a type RDS-46 five megaton warhead, serial number Eight Alpha Seven One Zulu. You will get that information to me, personally, as well as my Intel group, the NSA, and Colonel Pierson at OSOL. The full package, plus possible profile variants due to differences in shielding and refurbishment of same and of the trigger."

"OSOL? Why?"

"Because I am fucking well telling you to! Because if you don't, I'll stick my boot so far up your ass I'll be able to scratch your eyebrows with my toes! You lost the right to ask 'why' when you forgot about Gereshk!"

"Kildar, it is not -"

"Not my problem, Chechnik. Make. It. Happen. Second. Observation of Moscow by gamma radiation detectors."

"Impossible!"

"Make it possible, Chechnik."

"I cannot! Not I will not, I cannot!"

"He might not be able to," said Nielson, quietly.

"Hold." Without another word, Mike temporarily cut the line. "Why not?"

"The Russians are going to be pretty hesitant about letting our satellites deliberately look into Moscow for gamma sources. Hospitals, high-energy physics labs - we have those locations, they're open source. But if we're getting the full feed, we're going to get all the other sources of gamma radiation. Nuclear weapons, though I'd be surprised to find any in Moscow proper, and weapons research labs - and most of those are still pretty well under wraps."

"We could filter it," suggested Vanner thoughtfully. "Bet they skimped on the shielding on some building contracts, and the generals are worried they'll get caught. They've been death on misappropriation for a while now. Literally."

"They won't go for it," argued Nielson. "Not if we're getting the raw data and applying the filter. We'd have the unfiltered data, too, and that's what they want to keep out of our hands, no matter what it showed."

"We could give them the filter?"

Now it was Nielson's turn to be thoughtful. "They might go for that - but we'd have to write the program first."

"Not a problem," said Vanner, more enthusiastically. "I have a couple off-the-shelf programs I can modify pretty easily, once I get the specs. It's just a matter of -"

"We have an idea here?" interrupted Mike.

"Sorry, yeah, we do," said Vanner.

"Okay." He punched Chechnik back up. "You there?"

"Yes, Kildar, but I am telling you, it would be -"

"Hold on. All we need is the location of one bomb. I've been assured that once we get that profile, we can write a program that will filter out everything but that profile. We'll give you that program to apply on your end, then you can send us that feed. Would that be acceptable?"

"I think that would be a reasonable accommodation, yes."

"Good, because it's about the last one I'm gonna make. Third. Once we have the bomb located, you clear the area. I don't care if it's the fucking president's palace, you get every last body out and away from it. We'll be coming to kick ass and chew bubble gum and we're plain out of bubble gum."

"Done. I will make it so."

"Four. You will provide - no, scratch that. I'll take care of transport, but you will ensure that whatever I get has clearance. I don't know if it'll be commercial, charter, military, or what. I'll make sure we squawk 'Kildar One' on the transponder; you'll clear the skies."

"Again. Done."

"Fifth. This is a Keldara op, so your men stay out of it. But your sorry ass is coming with us, just to make sure you stay honest. I think you'll be much less likely to fuck us over if your own balls are on the line, don't you?"

"I agree, Kildar, but I don't know if the Prime Minister will agree. After the last operation, and my warning to you, well, I have plans for them. I'm afraid he might not place the same value on my balls as I do."

"Again, not my problem. If Vlad wants to try to take us out? He'll have a hell of a fight on his hand, right in the middle of Moscow. We'll be in control of a rogue nuke, and you can take that however you like." Mike smiled, shark-like, in anticipation. He looked a question at the other two, who both shook their heads.

"One last thing."

"Anything, Kildar."

"You take a few hours and try to remember everything you can about Gereshk. I don't care how insignificant, I need that intel."

"I understand that completely, Kildar. Let me say that -"

Whatever Chechnik wanted to say was lost as Mike hit the disconnect.

"So. Any ideas how we're going to get a team to Moscow fast?"

=============================

"Pierson."

"How would you get a team of two dozen, plus their gear, two thousand kilometers in an hour? Two squads, medic, heavy gear, plus myself. Short notice hour, that is."

"Teleport?"

"Seriously, Bob."

"Seriously, Mike. There is no way to get that many men that far that quickly in a single plane."

"Multiple planes?"

"Two dozen Eagles would do it, but that has its own problems. Taking that many out of active service, even for a few hours, makes a hell of a dent in our air superiority umbrella and active response profiles. That's a Command Authority decision, and unless you want another couple dozen meetings?" Pierson let that hang.

"Won't do that, then. What else?"

"An hour. Why an hour?"

"I suppose it could be as long as two hours," conceded Mike. "I don't want to take any chances on the target moving before we can be on site."

"Why not just locate closer?"

"Because I don't trust my hosts and all my equipment is here," said Mike grimly.

"A Russian problem, then. Hey!" Mike could hear pages being flipped through. "Bingo!"

"What?"

"They did a version of the Tu-22M3 as an ELINT carrier. Called it the Troika, or something similar, we called it the Backfire-C. It's supposed to be similar to our AWACS, so it might have the crew capacity you need."

"You think you can shake one loose?"

"Me? You're the one who owns the soul of a high-ranking officer in their Security Service!"

"Yeah, but I don't know how much further I can stretch that."

"Hmm. I wonder..."

The line went quiet.

"Bob?"

"Sorry. Back in a minute." Before Mike could say anything, he was on hold. Today the muzak was old Stones. Sympathy for the Devil. Mike was just starting to groove to the guitar solo when Pierson came back.

"Your timing sucks, Bob."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. What was that about?"

"Little known tidbit from that war that happened in your backyard last year?"

"Yeah? That was pretty nasty down here."

"The Russians used their Backfires in that war. Seems that they lost two in combat, though they only admit to one that was destroyed by ground-to-air fire. The other one was forced down. They're not talking about that one."

"Oh really?"

"Yep. Something about it being a black eye, losing an advanced bomber to a barely third-world power. One of the few outright victories for the Georgians, though it ended up costing about a third of their air force. The point is, when the cease-fires froze everything in place, it only dealt with territory and troops, not material. The Russians tended to destroy everything the Georgians threw at them, so there wasn't anything on their side to recover. But -"

"But my buddies in Tbilisi kept the Backfire."

"Exactly. I'll bet General Umarov would be more than happy to let you borrow it, especially if you're planning to take it into Russia. He'd love to thumb his nose at them, especially Putin."

"I'll bet he would. One problem I can see - well, two. First, a pilot."

"Think your Captain Hardesty would like to give it a shot?"

"In a heartbeat. But I think I'd like a little bit of experience in a Backfire, just in case."

"That can probably be arranged. Second?"

"What if the Russians want the plane back?"

"That could get sticky, if they have the stones to try to pull it off."

"Medvedev, probably not. Putin?"

"Yeah, Putin does. What if Umarov sold the plane to you? As a private citizen, you're entitled to bring your plane wherever you want."

"I don't think that I have the cash lying around for that. They run, what, two hundred mil per?" That would empty the coffers completely.

"North of that for a new one."

"Yeah, right out then."

"Just call me your friendly financier. I think I can swing something. Probably along the lines of a nice USAID package, combined with some quiet help rebuilding the Georgian Air Force. I know we have a few deals in the works; this will just sweeten the pot a bit. There's some old Phantoms that were refurbbed for drones, new ECM, engines, computers. That sort of thing. I think the Air Force can find something else to shoot at."

"My own air force. I'm never gonna hear the end of this."

"I'm sure Umarov will be more than happy to watch over your Backfire for you. Hell, you could probably lease it back to him, if not for cash then for various and sundry favors."

"True. Wonder if Hardesty would be willing to come aboard permanently?"

"Do you really want to piss off Chatham?"

"Not really. Okay, I'll call Umarov and talk about the Backfire, he can call you to arrange all the financial details, and you'll get us a co-pilot. Am I missing anything?"

"Just one."

"What's that?"

"I want a picture of Putin's face when he hears you've bought a Backfire."

"You tell us when he's outside, I'll get you the picture, right off his own satellites. Vanner's got some new 3D rendering tools he's dying to try out."

"I really, really didn't need to hear that."

=============================

"Vil."

"Kildar."

"You, your best fire team, two heavies, and your sniper. Prepare for extended deployment."

"Yes, Kildar. Where?"

"Moscow. Make sure you have your passports. Diplomatic ones."

"Going in heavy?"

Mike thought. "Yeah. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke."

=============================

"Captain."

"Kildar."

"Your mission here is completed. You are free to return to the land of the Big PX whenever you can arrange transport. We've arranged for the bodies to be shipped to Dover AFB with full honors. Colonel Pierson will arrange for everyone's debrief and then time in the lands of sun and sand as a bonus - where the women wear bikinis, not burkhas," he added.

A look of total disappointment consumed JP's face.

"Or, you can remain here on TDY, at least through the Festival of Balar," Mike relented. "It'll take that long get the transports here, unless I'm gonna pay to fly you home civilian. That's not gonna happen.

"Oh, you prick! You had me going for a minute!"

"Yeah, well. Can't make you leave without seeing Sivula married off, can I?"

"No, you sure can't. Don't think the troops will want to leave, anyway. Something about the beer."

"You're sure it's not the women?"

"Yeah, pretty dammed sure." At least, not for them. I'm still hoping...

=============================

"You did what?" Adams nearly spat out his beer across the kitchen table.

"Well, I'm not really buying it. Uncle Sam is, but it's going to be in my name."

"Don't fuckin' matter. A Backfire? Are you out of your ever-loving skull?"

"No more than usual. How else am I going to get a whole team to Moscow, fast? We need to get in and out when that bubble's ready to pop before that prick can bugger us again."

"Point. What about just buying a Concorde?"

"They don't fly them anymore, dipshit."

"So? Bet you could get one cheap."

"Tell you what, next time I'm looking for a plane, you can consult."

"Deal. What else?"

"Making a trip to Moscow. Half of Vil's team. You, Vanner, Grez, Anisa. Figure two dozen is max, if it ends us less, we'll improvise, adapt and overcome as usual. Gonna be a bigger hammer job, if only to keep Putin honest and away from us. Who else?"

"Arensky? Need our pet WMD expert."

"Good call."

"Leave Grez behind, though. We need her insight here if we're hauling around Vanner."

Mike shook his head. "No, they work better as a team. Stella can mind the store."

"No Lasko though, dammit."

"And no Shota or Mules either. I thought about recalling them; a heavy grab would be right up their alley, but Vil's fast and used to thinking on his feet. They'll do; you and the others trained them well."

"I notice you didn't say Katrina."

"Good for you, Ass-Boy."

"Any particular reason why?"

"Besides the fact that I don't want her to come along but I'm not sure I can stop her?"

"Yeah."

"Not really."

Changing the subject, the Chief said, "Thought you might be interested - we got into Inarov's safe. Seems the Emir did his own security on it, didn't trust Schwenke, so no surprises, just a lot of sweat. Could have used Creata on this one, then we wouldn't have had to lug it down to the valley."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Turned it over to Padrek and his boys. Told him they could do anything they wanted, as long as they didn't damage the contents."

"And?"

"Bonanza. Schedules, plans, Inarov's journal, contact lists - we can roll up the entire fucking Chechen resistance with this shit. Money in the bank, even what I can read. Gonna keep us busy for a long, long time if we take the mission."

"That'll make Pierson happy. Or Chechnik. Or both. Anything else?"

"A few pornos. The late Emir was a sick, sick man."

"How sick?"

"Let me put it this way: I only skimmed 'em, okay, twice, but I'll never look at a goat the same way again." After a laugh, Adams continued. "That's not the best part."

"There's better? What, a mule? A camel?"

"Yeah. I mean, no. You know the old saying, 'Diamonds are a girl's best friend'? Of course you do - I saw the rock you gave Katrina. Nice taste, by the way."

"Thanks. I know the saying. What of it?"

Adams dug into a cavernous pocket, pulled out a lumpy cloth bag, and handed it to Mike.

"Go ahead. Take a look," he said with a small smile.

Mike poured the contents onto the tabletop. A number of rough bluish crystals spilled out, along with a much smaller bag, which he picked up and emptied onto his hand. Five small blue crystals gleamed at him.

"Pretty. Sapphire?"

"No, though that was my first guess."

"There's another one," Mike said, holding one of the gemstones to the light and watching it shift to a more purple color in the kitchen fluorescents. "Iolite, I think it's called."

"Nope, though I haven't heard of it. This stuff - I had Vanner check it out, I had Arensky test it, and they're both sure. It's called blue garnet."

"Garnet? Didn't know it could be blue. Don't you use garnet for polishing and smoothing? Think I remember something about that."

"Common garnet, yeah. Not this stuff. Those five little gems you have weighed out a little more than seven carats. Street value? Over ten million."

"What's that in dollars?" Mike inquired, rolling them idly in his hand. "About three hundred sixty thousand? A nice little bonus there for the boys."

"That is in dollars."

Mike's hand froze. "You're shitting me."

Adams shook his head. "Nope. One point five mil per carat, in that quality."

"And the rough stones?"

"They're about three hundred and twenty carats total weight. Gonna lose some in cutting, but figure with a skilled cutter you'll end up with between two fifty and two seventy-five."

Very carefully, Mike put the faceted gems back in the small pouch before speaking. "Do you think Inarov had the slightest idea what he had here?"

Adams' grin, which had been getting larger and larger, fairly threatened to split his face. "That's the best bit: he had no fucking clue! We found an invoice and an assayer's report with them, and I don't know who the jackass was who did the evaluation, but he judged them to be Alexandrite."

"That's pretty costly, isn't it?"

"Ten grand per carat, yeah. I looked it up; it changes color in different lights, too, which is probably why it was assayed that way. It was a nice pile for the Emir to be sitting on, even so - the assayer's report estimated them, as Alexandrite, to be worth about three million dollars."

"Instead of four hundred and fifty. Just a little off."

"What a pity, eh?"

"Wonder how Inarov got his hands on them?"

Adams shook his head. "No idea. There are a couple entries in his journal about them, but they're vague. Oh, and you can forget about going to that assayer. Inarov was very clear about him: 'Infidel who cut initial gems eliminated.' So that's a dead end too."

"Pity," said Mike, rolling one of the uncut pieces in his hand. "Guess that means we'll have to keep 'em." He put the fortune away. "Find a reputable, close-mouthed cutting house. I want these done up as soon as possible, about one carat each, and a couple dozen larger stones, say about three carats each."

"What're you going to do with them?"

"Don't worry. You'll find out soon enough." Mike gave the Chief his best Mona Lisa and nothing else.

CHAPTER 49

Tbilisi; The Caravanserai; Low Earth Orbit; Moscow

April 16/17/18

"Umarov." He growled into the phone, half out of breath. He'd just got back from the 'unscheduled field exercises' and was halfway through his own version of cardio when the phone rang. The phone. The one under a glass dome with the flashing light, the one he'd had installed specifically for a single man.

Dammit.

"General, Mike Jenkins. Did I interrupt something?" There was a knowing tone in the American's voice. As if on cue, his secretary popped her head above the desk, looking at him curiously. He shook his head in negation and sighed. Later, he mouthed. With a pout, she stood and walked toward his private quarters, the perfect image of a general's secretary from the waist up, bare from the waist down.

"Ah, Kildar! Just a little, ah, exercise. You understand, of course." He paused at hearing Mike's chuckle. More business-like, he continued. "I thought you might want to know - it seems there were some Chechens on the wrong side of the border near your area. We secured them without too much bloodshed on our part."

"Really? I'm shocked, General, simply shocked!"

"Yes, truly surprising," Umarov said wryly. "But to what do I owe this call? Certainly not to hear about our border security?"

"No, General, though that is good news. I was wondering if you were using the Backfire?"

"Backfire? What Backfire?" Umarov's voice was carefully neutral.

"The Backfire your fighters forced down during that little unpleasantness with the Russians last year. Specifically, a Tu-22-M3-R ELINT that was forced down at Oh Eight Forty-Seven hours on 10 August and is currently on the ground in Marneuli."

"I won't ask how you know about this."

"Probably wise," agreed Mike.

"The answer is no, we aren't using the Backfire. We don't have any pilots currently certified to fly it, for one thing." Umarov didn't mention that they still held the Russian pilot, who steadfastly refused to have anything to do with the project, and Mike politely failed to bring the subject up.

"Is it damaged?"

"No, it isn't. Why the interest in a former Russian bomber?"

"I need fast transport," said Mike, honestly. "And it was suggested that the Backfire might fit my needs."

"Fast transport? For how many?"

"Around twenty, maybe twenty-four people and their gear. Plus a flight crew."

Mike could almost hear Umarov thinking. "There is plenty of space in the fuselage now," he said. "It would need some work done, though."

"Let me guess. All the ELINT gear?"

"Exactly. It is much advanced over our own equipment, so we removed it for study."

"They didn't damage the airframe, did they?"

"Oh, no! The technicians who did the work were most careful. We had hope to use the bird ourselves later."

"Cards on the table time. I intend to buy this for use on a more-or-less permanent basis, and to keep you a step removed from any, well, let's say 'repercussions' and keep it at that."

Umarov laughed. "I know you have very much money, Mr. Jenkins, but I doubt even you could afford this!"

"Oh, I don't intend to pay for it," answered Mike easily. "Let me explain..."

Ten minutes later, they had worked out the framework of an agreement. Umarov felt confident that he could find experienced pilots willing to ferry the Backfire to Tbilisi, where the interior would be refurbished and refitted as quickly as possible. Mike promised he'd have Vanner and a team of Keldara at the airport soon but asked that local security provide a five-hundred-meter perimeter at all times.

It would be somewhat more comfortable than your run-of-the-mill military transport, but not nearly as posh as a Gulfstream or its ilk. Officially, title would vest with Mike - pending various concessions from the States - but he would ensure that it was available for use by Umarov and other members of the government. "It's not every country that has a Mach-capable transport," he had said, pleased.

"When will it be in Tbilisi? I want my Intel guy there to help with the installation and to add his touches." And to sweep it for any bugs that might have found their way aboard, he didn't add. Forcing the pace of the deal would limit the time Umarov's men had to install such gadgets too.

"Will tomorrow morning be soon enough?"

"That might be pushing it. Speed, as you may have guessed, is of the essence."

Umarov sighed. "I will try for tonight."

"Thank you, General. I look forward to a fruitful partnership," said Mike, grimacing. He could imagine the uses the Backfire was going to have. Mile High Club, Georgian Branch?

===============================

"Chatham Aviation, Gloria speaking."

"Hello, Gloria, Mike Jenkins."

"Hello, Mike, is there a problem?"

"No, no, Gloria. Everything has been splendid, as always. Sorry about the wear on the 550."

"We understand. The repairs will be included in the bill, as usual. How can I help you today?"

"I have a rather delicate question for you, Gloria. Regarding Captain Hardesty."

"Yes?" she said, her tone curious and cautious at the same time. Mike's request with that particular pilot were legendary around Chatham's offices.

"Would he be available for a short-term assignment? In a non-Chatham aircraft?" Mike tried to sound as neutral as possible.

"As a rule, we don't allow our pilots to fly aircraft that we don't maintain ourselves," began Gloria. "Insurance, and all that."

"I understand," said Mike, resigned to calling Pierson again and begging for pilots. He hated doing that. "I guess I'll -"

"In John's case, and if you're the one doing the hiring?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then I think I'd leave it up to him. I don't think I want to know too much, do I?" She sounded like she wanted to ask more but would wait for the final reports, and for the checks to clear.

"I seem to be saying this a bunch: probably not."

"Then, good luck convincing him. I would start by apologizing for the G550; he rather thinks of her as his baby. Good day, Mike."

===============================

"Hardesty." He looked down at his co-pilot, sleeping, and decided not to kick him awake. Yet. Best if he got all the sleep he could. He'd never flown for Mike Whatever-His-Name-Really-Was before, and the high-speed transatlantic crossing had taken it out of him. He'd learn. Eventually. Or he'd find himself a new co.

"John, Mike. I have a proposition for you." Speak of the devil.

"Yes?" The veteran pilot's tones were wary.

"When was the last time you flew a Mach-capable plane?"

"A mate of mine who's still in the RAF flies Typhoons. He let me backseat with him in a trainer, oh, six months ago. Why?"

"How would you like to fly a Backfire?"

He could practically hear the former fighter pilot drool. "A Backfire? When? Where?" He'd be buggered if he gave this up!

"When, is as soon as it's refitted. Where, let me ask, where are you?"

"Still in Tbilisi. I wanted to give the 550 a thorough once-over after our speed run. Seems there are a number of issues caused by extended high-speed flight..." He allowed his voice to trail off.

"I'd heard. Look, I'm sorry about the damage, I already told Gloria I'd take care of it. But, about the Backfire - you should see it tonight. I'm told it should arrive sometime the next few hours." He paused. "So. Are you interested in flying it?"

"Bloody hell yes!"

"Good. Take some leave from Chatham; I've already talked with Gloria. For the duration, flying the Backfire, I'll be paying your salary. Whatever you get is doubled. Think you can manage?"

"I'll make do," said Hardesty dryly. Then he remembered what else had happened when he flew Mike around and wondered about the wisdom of his decision.

"Okay. As soon as the Backfire arrives, I want you over there to oversee and familiarize. In the meantime, find any tech manuals you can and start reading. I'm working on getting you a co with some hours in the airframe, but no guarantees. Any questions?"

"Just one. Are things going to be getting wild and wooly again?"

"This time? Probably."

"I was afraid there was a catch."

===============================

It was actually a straightforward bit of programming, reflected Vanner.

The profile of the missing nuke had finally arrived. Once he had it in his hands, all he needed to do was plug the specifics into the code he'd already written. He knew that the base program would work; he'd stolen - err, borrowed - it from the NRO's files for other searches.

Uploading it back to Chechnik took a little longer.

===============================

"Colonel, the Amis have sent us their program," said his surviving aide, Lieutenant Sankovsky.

"You know what to do?"

"Yes, Colonel."

"Then what are you waiting for? Permission?" Chechnik's tone was biting. He couldn't take his frustrations out on the Kildar, and he certainly couldn't take them out on Putin who had put him in this untenable position in the first place. That just left his aide. Fortunately, one of an aide's roles is to be abused.

"No, Colonel. Working on it, Colonel." The lieutenant's fingers fairly flew over the keyboard.

===============================

A veritable constellation of satellites turned their 'eyes' to Moscow. Russian and American 'national technical means', reporting to the FSS, NRO, and CIA all peered downward.

Other missions joined in, though not all of their controllers were aware.

Konos-Wind, a NASA project studying the solar wind, turned two gamma ray spectrometers Earthward.

INTEGRAL, despite its extremely eccentric orbit, was ordered by the ESA to join the search. A three-day orbit had benefits, such as much longer scan periods; and drawbacks, like the Earth turning underneath.

Even AGILE, an Italian spacecraft, was added to the search.

Of course, even the most sensitive gamma radiation detector can only report what it 'sees'.

One of the few materials which blocks gamma rays effectively is lead. Lead, which for centuries had been used as a roofing material. Which was, and still is, widely used on concrete roofs.

Like the one on the warehouse Gereshk had chosen to hide the bomb in.

Murphy snickered.

===============================

Putin was absolutely livid, and the staff did they best to get out of his way as he stormed through Chechnik's office. Chechnik looked at him as he ranted and, despite the ominous nature of the visit, found his mind wandering to descriptions of his boss. Livid didn't really fit, it was much too mild. Incandescent? Closer, perhaps. Volcanic? Better still. Ready to stroke out? Bozhe moi, Dear God, please! But it didn't seem that God was listening.

"Who authorized you to allow American spy satellites to peer into Moscow, you fucking kulak!?!" he had screamed.

"You did, Prime Minister," Chechnik replied as coolly as possible. "As part of the effort to track -"

"I don't care if God told you to do it!" bellowed Putin. "You need to ask me beforehand on issues of national security!"

Like losing a double dozen nuclear warheads and trying to get them back? Chechnik thought. Aloud, he said, "Yes, Prime Minister."

"And how do we know if they are telling the truth? They say the feed is going to Galitsino-2, but what proof have we?"

"We are receiving data there, sir, directly from the satellites in question."

"Fool. And they cannot transmit to another location simultaneously?"

"Actually, sir, no. Their satellites mount unidirectional antennas, specifically to control the data stream." He tapped a highly redacted report from a mole in the CIA, a copy which he could permit Putin to see without worrying about his source being burnt, or, worse still, traded to the Americans for some concession or another.

"And they cannot record their observations and transmit them to their own ground control later?" So. Someone had been briefing him on technology again.

"I do not know, Minister," admitted Chechnik. "It is an oversight, I admit."

"An oversight?" The spittle flew from Putin's lips, veins throbbing. "If they get wind of our illegal, nuclear-tipped Opekun Anti-Missile system, you'll have caused me - the President," he corrected hastily, "Great embarrassment and difficulty!" He paused for emphasis. "In attempting to enhance the security of the Rodina, Colonel, you may have done great damage to it!"

"Prime Minister, I apologize for any difficulties that may arise, but I felt that the threat of a five-megaton bomb actually in Moscow outweighed any longer-term repercussions."

"Perhaps," conceded Putin. "But why the fucking Keldara? And that miserable mercenary - I don't care what he calls himself! - American? Why didn't the Guards take them out?" The PM's fist hammered down on a framed photograph of Chechnik's family, cracking the frame and shattering the glass. It took considerable willpower for him to ignore the assault and still appear as cowed and broken as Putin believed him to be.

"Sir?"

"The 5th Motor Rifle Division! Why didn't they engage and destroy the Keldara while they were on Russian territory?" Putin smashed the photo to the ground. Even though Chechnik didn't have much of a relationship with his family any longer, it still pissed him off. Gathering his self-control, he answered as meekly as he could.

"You ordered them not to, sir."

"I did no such thing!" Putin exploded. "I remember giving you the order, that the 5th was to wipe out - no, eliminate - every enemy of the state, foreign or domestic! So do not stand there and lie to me, you osel!"

"Mr. Minister! You said that they were to execute that order when, and I quote you, sir, 'if the Keldara call for support.' Sir, they never called for support. They went in, performed the mission, and withdrew. Our men were left sitting, waiting for a call that never came. By the time we knew they were in place, they were already moving out."

"I don't want excuses, Colonel! I want results, and I want the Kildar dead!"

"Perhaps, Mr. Minister, you should be talking to the Thirteenth Department of the First Chief Directorate of the FSB" - the branch that dealt with assassinations.

Putin turned, if possible, a brighter red. "Out of my office!"

That was one order Chechnik was eager to execute, despite it being his office. It wouldn't do to point that out, however. Putin could search all he wanted; there was nothing incriminating left.

Bangkok was looking better and better.

===============================

Lieutenant Colonel Christopher Watson, USAF, had flown the hottest planes on the planet in his capacity as a test pilot. From the F-117 Night Hawk to the F-22 Raptor and the F-35 Lightning II, he'd flown them all and flown them first. His experience and competence had made him the logical choice to be the Air Force's 'point man' when examining samples of foreign aircraft that fell into American hands.

He'd logged time in all the major Soviet fighters through the MiG-29 Fulcrum and the Sukhoi-27 Flanker. He'd flown the Tu-16 Badger (old and slow, but surprisingly durable); the Tu-22 Blinder (fast as blazes but short legs); and the Tu-22M Backfire (solid range but tricky to handle). He wanted to fly the Tu-160 Blackjack, the world's largest and fastest supersonic combat aircraft, and had finally finagled an invitation from the Russians to come over and participate in a joint exercise.

That's why he was pissed now. He hated frago's!

Some Pentagon weenie from an office he'd never heard of had issued the frag orders, dispatching him to Tbilisi, of all places! He was to make himself 'available' to something called a Kildar for an unspecified length of time for 'non-Air-Force-related duties'. Probably ferrying some crappy third world politico around in an old Gulfstream or Learjet.

Shit.

He hated babysitting VIPs, especially pissants like this one probably would be. He was TDY, at least, so he'd come out of this with a little extra cash in his pocket. And, he reflected, stick time was stick time, even if it was a C-21 or some such.

His musings were cut off as the captain of the Airzena Boeing 737-500 announced their arrival. Tbilisi. What did he do to end up in this armpit?

As the passenger jet taxied towards the terminal - too much to hope that they would have jet ways, it was raining and it looked fucking cold! - he noticed something odd. Was that a - holy fuck! What was a Backfire doing in Tbilisi?

Peering out the window, he hardly noticed the plane stop at the end of its taxi. He didn't notice that he was the final passenger on the jet until the steward came over and - politely, he had to admit, but firmly - informed him that it was time to disembark. Abashed, he gathered up his carry-ons and exited, pausing at the top of the mobile stairway. Something was going on over there, even though it was -

"What time is it?" he asked the still-patient steward.

"Ten twenty," he replied.

Shit. His body was telling him it was maybe seven in the morning. Jet lag sucked. But it was late and there were dozens of people crawling all over the Backfire, and line of trucks backed up a hundred yards.

After reclaiming his duffel from the ancient luggage carousel, squeaking and rattling like it hadn't been maintained properly since the Soviets were kicked out, he stood in the terminal, lost, until a man, short, stocky, with brown hair, in a peculiarly-patterned military camouflage uniform approached. He noted a flash badge on the shoulder of a roaring tiger. Other than that, all that decorated the uniform was a name: Vanner.

"Colonel Watson?"

"Yes?" Thank God, an American!

"Chief Warrant Officer Pat Vanner, of the Georgian Mountain Tigers Militia." He held out his hand, and Watson shook it. "Welcome to Georgia. Sorry about the rain; this time of year, we're lucky it's not snow."

"No problem. So why am I here?" he asked impatiently. He was tired, and his manners were still somewhere over the Med.

Ignoring the question, Vanner answered, "Do you have any more luggage?"

Watson got the hint. Not here, not in the open. "No, this is it."

"Okay, then. I have a ride laid on. If you'll come this way?" And Vanner led him out of the baggage area.

Once outside, Vanner said quietly, "We don't think anyone is tailing you, and I'm sure there's nobody on me. But it's never worth taking a chance."

Thinking, What kind of Wonderland have I fallen into?, Watson said, "I didn't realize we weren't. No excuse, but I've been given no instructions at all, just grab your gear and get your ass to Georgia."

"Typical," Vanner snorted. "Hurry up and wait bullshit. Okay, Colonel, here's the deal. You have some time in the Backfire?"

"Yeah, more than most. Thirty hours as pilot, and probably another fifty, fifty-two as co."

"What model?"

"M3." Like that bird out there, he didn't say.

"Good." Vanner fell silent for a moment. "Colonel," he finally said, "What I'm about to say is so classified I know I shouldn't open the compartment, and I'm neck-deep in it. But you definitely have a need-to-know, even if your control disagreed."

"What -"

"Wait. Let me think." Vanner led on in silence for a few minutes, until they got to a red Explorer. After putting the bags in the back and climbing in, he spoke again, his tone becoming official don't-interrupt-me-there-will-be-a-quiz-later.

"You are going to be flying a Backfire Tu-22M3(R) that's being modified to serve as a personnel transport. You will be training a civilian pilot, former RAF, on the operation of the aircraft. You will know the destination, obviously, but you are not to discuss it, now or any time in the future. When on the ground, you are to remain in the aircraft at all times and off the radio. Food will be brought in, and the facilities aboard should be operational now. You are to be seen by as few people as possible. And, I'm sorry, but you will have no other access to outside communications. I need your phone, PDA, pager - everything. Do you have your issue sidearm?"

"No, I -"

"We will issue you a sidearm for the duration. If you see anyone aboard the bird without a purple Tiger badge, you are authorized to terminate them immediately. Do you understand these instructions?"

"Christ, Chief! You come up with this all on your own?" He tried for levity, but couldn't keep the incredulity from his voice.

Vanner's tone was cold. "Colonel, I would like to keep this as friendly and professional as possible. I can, however, end your career with a single phone call, and ensure you spend the next ten years breaking rocks for scientists in Greenland. Do you get me?"

"Fuck yourself, Chief. Take me back and put me on a fucking plane."

The Beretta M9A1, standard issue for the Marine Corps and held onto by Vanner for sentimental reasons, seemed to materialize in his hand. Watson noted that it was pointed very steadily at his chest.

"Colonel, that's not an option. Whether you fly or not, you're staying here. I'd prefer to have you fly, but, as my boss says, we have a backhoe."

Watson gulped. "I think I'll fly."

The Beretta disappeared just as swiftly. In a friendlier tone, Vanner said, "Grez - my wife - would kill me if I got blood on the upholstery."

"Can you tell me anything?" implored Watson.

Vanner thought again. "Nope. You'll thank me for it later. Okay, there are some bennies."

"Like what?"

"Well, your pay will be supplemented by the Kildar. He believes in rewarding excellence. No taxes, and if you don't tell Uncle Sam, we won't."

"That's good," admitted Watson.

"Plus - the Keldara consider their beer part of their rations, and since they're supplying you, you'll get what they get."

"Keldara beer? Some sort of local brew? Had enough of those; I'll pass."

"You may want to reconsider that," said Vanner. "You heard of Mountain Tiger?"

"Yeah."

"That's the Keldara's second-rate stuff."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, oh. Of course, if you want to pass on it, I'm sure I can find -"

"On second thought, Chief, I might just hold onto them."

"Thought you might see it that way."

===============================

"I don't suppose I can talk you out of this, can I?"

The look on Kat's face told the entire tale. Her arms, crossed below her breasts, cemented her stance. The tapping foot may have been a bit much.

"I didn't think so," he sighed. "I suppose that Moscow's as good a place as any. At least I'll be able to keep an eye on you."

"And I you, Michael." She tossed her M-4 onto the pile.

===============================

"Nothing, sir," the tired tech responded for the third time in as many minutes.

Chechnik winced. It was well after midnight; he'd been in the office since six in the morning; and now this. "Search again."

"Colonel, it's not here. We have had ten satellite sweeps, with enough density and overlap. Every gamma source has been positively identified, from our maps and on the ground! It's not here!"

"I said, search again. Or do you want to ignore a five-megaton bomb in a city of eleven million? How many do you think would survive? Two million? Three? How many families would be destroyed? What if your family was within the footprint, would you give up so easily then?"

"No, Colonel, but the satellites -"

"Fuck the satellites! Get men on the ground with Geiger counters, have them search every block, every building." He turned to a map and started marking out a quick grid to coordinate the search.

"That will take days, even if we grab every cadet and plebe! People will notice; people will panic!"

"Then we'll have to hope we get lucky, won't we? Get them moving. All of them. Match the cadets with experienced line troopers, tell them it's an exercise. Do it. Now."

"Yes, Colonel. At once."

===============================

Dawn over Moscow. A suspicious number of high-ranking officials were unexpectedly absent from their homes and offices today. Unscheduled fact-finding trips, serious health issues, and impromptu vacations had swept scores from the city, literally overnight. In every case, though, they kept their mouths shut about the true reason for their departure. Wives, families, mistresses were abandoned with little explanation and no satisfaction, but they could be replaced. Their own hides, not so much.

The onion domes of the Kremlin caught the early morning sunshine and reflected it back in a thousand directions.

Russian soldiers, grumbling at the earliness of the hour, trooped along sidewalks, waving detection wands at every building. So far, several dentists' offices, and an infirmary, had been singled out, but the search continued. Higher was looking for something else. Of course, betting pools sprang up in every company over which squad might find the mysterious gamma target first. And, it gave the enlisted men a rare opportunity to pilfer from stores and warehouses. For once, it wasn't just the officers getting a slice.

Bakers and markets opened their doors. The smells of fresh black bread and kasha spread through the city streets as the people emerged from their homes, headed to work or to the market to shop for the day. The soldiers on their mysterious patrols went unnoticed, or at least unremarked. The civilians had learned long ago that to remark usually led to problems. One look at the tired, hungry, sour faces of the soldiers was all it took to turn their eyes elsewhere.

Commuters from suburbs all around Moscow emerged from their trains at the Leningradsky, Yaroslavsky and Kazansky terminals and thronged to the Komsomolskaya Metro station, one of the busiest in the city. Despite the long lines, tempers were held in check, especially with all the troops about. The sun was shining, the weather warm, and hadn't they waited in longer lines for bread under the Soviets? Soldiers on some sort of exercise, waving wands? The merest nothing.

A half kilometer away, in a tired warehouse that bore the logo of a defunct exporter, other men awoke to greet the day, with prayers while facing almost due south. After praying, they cleaned their weapons under the alert gaze of their leader.

Meanwhile, Gereshk planned.

His men would depart that night, merging with the infidels, the mindless herd pushing and bellowing their way to their pasturage. It should be easy enough for his warriors to mimic the unthinking masses and make their way south to report. They had all in readiness; he'd inspected each man's pack the night before.

Papers? Check.

Money? Check.

Bus and train schedules? Check.

Weapons. That troubled him. Security wasn't the issue; on the state lines, it was an open joke. But restraint, ah, now that was a potential problem. Would his men be able to restrain themselves at the sight of the hated Russians? Or would they surrender to their righteous urge to lay waste to the infidels, the despoilers of the Dar Al Islam?

No. Much as he wanted to, he couldn't risk putting temptation into the hearts of his men. No weapons - at least, he amended, no rifles. Pistols, knives, yes. Those could be concealed easily and ordered to remain that way. That way, at least, he wouldn't be stripping his fedayeen of every measure of defense. To draw such weapons would require time, time in which they could consider the consequences of baring arms here, in Moscow, the very heart of the enemy.

One more day, and he would achieve his glory. His men would live to spread the tale and his name, the name of the man who brought the very Finger of Allah to the enemy's core.

===============================

"Nothing?"

"Nothing."

While Vanner was overseeing the conversion of the Backfire, Grez was again left running the Cave and reporting to Mike. She looked like she needed a solid week's sleep at this point.

"We're sure we have the entire take? They're not holding back on us?" Mike obviously still distrusted the Russians. What had he said? Oh, yes. 'I trust them as far as I can throw a bear.'

"I cannot vouch for the Russian satellites; we have been unable to access them directly. But the American satellites? NASA, ESA? Those, we have connections with."

"You mean the Mice hacked them," Mike corrected with a grin.

"Yes. A while back. Mouse wanted to make a point with those who would hack into our servers," she said with a shrug. "The point is, we have some of the raw data, and it's matching the data Chechnik's office is sending us that was filtered by Pat's program." My husband, her smile said.

"That's not good news."

"No, and it gets worse. Overnight, the Ground Forces in and around Moscow have all been mobilized. They're searching for it on the ground."

"That'll take half of forever," commented Adams from the overstuffed chair he'd had brought to the conference room.

"And tip off Gereshk," added Nielson. "I understand the pressure they're under to find the thing, but this could cause them to accelerate their timetable. Russian troops aren't exactly what you'd call subtle."

"Precisely, Colonel," agreed Grez. "That is why I suggest we move to assist them now, rather than later. Eventually, the story will leak, and the citizens will panic. Emplacement and reaction time will be even more critical for us. Instead of hours -"

"We might have minutes. Right. Have we heard from Pat yet?" Mike asked the table in general.

"He sent a message early this morning, about four, that he had personally gone over every inch of the plane, removed a half-dozen bugs of one type or another, and was going to sleep for a few hours."

"Anything since?" Mike looked down at the muck in his coffee cup. Suck it up, SEAL! he berated himself. You used to eat this shit for breakfast!

"No, but he might not be up yet. He pulled in many favors to move this quickly."

"Get hold of him soonest and find out where we stand. If he's behind, find out what he needs to expedite. Kacey, Tamara, we're gonna need transport to the airport."

"Not a problem," answered Kacey for both. "Both birds are ready to fly."

"You're going to be pretty heavily loaded, between the teams and their weapons."

"For a little hop to Tbilisi, these birds can handle it. Anything else?"

"Yeah," he answered, turning to her partner. "No stupid stunts this time Tammy. Got it?"

Wilson looked at him, eyes wide and overflowing with innocence. "Me, Kildar?"

===============================

The interior of the Backfire had been transformed. Where it had been bare metal skin and ribs, revealed when the Georgians had removed all the ELINT gear, it was now foamed and covered with standard aircraft tile.

Comfortable seats had been installed, spaced far enough apart to recline almost horizontal to allow for better rest en route. These had been liberated from a pair of semi-civilian planes that had been badly damaged during the short Russo-Georgian war. Both tails had been shot off, but neither burned, so it was hoped that they could be repaired, eventually. Of course, the fact that, ever since, they had been cannibalized by every passing jet that needed immediate repairs was going to make that problematic, but...

A pair of small refrigerators and a cooking area were mounted far aft to allow the preparation of hot meals. Lord only knew where they'd come from. A workstation was built aft of the cockpit door, with sufficient computing capacity to keep even the Mice happy. That, Vanner knew, had come from his wife, but from what source? He didn't know, he didn't want to know, and he would deny ever even thinking that it looked awfully similar to the stations the CIA had installed in their offices in the Embassy.

Maybe it wasn't the teak you'd find on the 550, Hardesty thought, looking around the cabin that had been built literally overnight, but it will do.

The American Colonel walked up behind him. "Morning, John."

"Good morning, Christopher! I'm ready for my lesson whenever you are." After a brief meeting the previous night and a quick session of 'do you know -?' and 'did you fly -?', both pilots decided that any serious training would have to wait for morning.

"Let me check with Chief Vanner," Watson said, looking around. "Any idea where he's hiding?"

"I believe he's forward, in the cockpit. Probably up to no good. If he wasn't a sodding Yank, I'd have him pegged for MI-5, section 9, without a doubt."

"Wonder what he's really doing?" mused Watson, moving that direction. He didn't have the experience with the Tigers his co did and was genuinely curious.

What could have changed in just a few hours?

When he opened the cockpit door, he stopped and gawped in amazement. The flight deck had been completely transformed, even more than the passenger area.

The old-fashioned analog controls had been replaced with a suite of small monitors, surrounding a single larger one. The clunky overhead and wall-filling electronics were all gone, as well, or what had remained of them when they'd taken control. A fifth seat had been added, where Vanner now sat, cables snaking from his laptop to every new suite of controls.

"What the fuck did you do to my cockpit?" asked Watson, aghast. About the only things he recognized were the throttle controls, still in the center, and the control yokes.

"Upgrades," answered Vanner easily. "Did you know that they were still using tubes in this bitch? Not many; it's obvious they'd done some improvements. But it was still solidly 1970's tech. Now, it's not. And no, I'm not gonna tell you where it came from or how it got here." He smiled wanly and then tapped a few more times at the laptop. Row after row of lights suddenly shone green. "All done. Green across the board, full connectivity, tell-me-three-times redundancy and fault protection. My people are good," he finished with visible pride.

"I think it's bloody brilliant!" said Hardesty. "All our instruments are on those wee screens?"

"Yep. Altitude, speed, radar, everything you need. It's all touch screen and voice-driven technology. You can either tap a screen to bring up a menu," he said, walking forward and demonstrating on the pilot's main display. Sure enough, when he touched the chosen monitor a menu popped up, and a soft voice could be heard from the headset. "She tells you what the menu options are so you don't need to take your eyes from the sky, and you can control her simply by speaking." He picked up the headset, said, "Grez, radar," and the display changed instantly.

"Right now, since we're on the ground, she's taking the feed from the control tower," he said. "Grez, change scale, two hundred kilometers." The display shifted and resolved, with startling rapidity. "System off." Obediently, the image disappeared.

"I printed a list of commands that she'll recognize. Simple ones. But she's got a heuristic algorithm, so she'll learn quickly. I think you'll like her." He pointed to clipboards magnetically mounted on each pilots' seat. "Be sure to familiarize yourself with the codes and keywords. She's smart, and will get smarter, but she's still a computer. She'll take you literally if you're not careful."

"You keep referring to the plane as 'her'. And isn't Grez your wife?" said Hardesty, amused.

"Oh, no, not the plane. Just the control system. Though," Vanner added thoughtfully, "They're pretty well integrated now, so I guess you could say that."

"What if I'm just talking to Hardesty about something and use a command phrase?" said Watson.

"Oh, I thought of that. She has three modes: full manual, full voice, and voice recognition. The first, well, obvious. All from the touch screens. The second, anything you say she'll scan to see if it's in her command list; if it is, she'll ask you to confirm the command before executing."

"And the third?"

"The third? Well - that's the mode she was in. You have to say her name, or say 'system', to trigger her. But once she hears that, you don't get a confirmation request, so you must be careful what you say. She'll repeat the order as she executes it, so you have a chance to unscrew the pooch if you're quick about it."

"You named the control system after your wife?" Watson asked.

"It's something she's been tinkering with for a while," he said proudly. "It seemed appropriate. She likes to have her hands free and absolutely hates typing."

"And does your missus know you've applied her program to a plane?"

Vanner looked a little abashed. "Not yet," he said.

Hardesty was looking around in awe. "What else have you done?"

"This was originally an ELINT bird, right?"

"Yes, but I thought the Georgians removed all that?"

"They did - all the Russian crap. I've loaded her back up with the best I had in my workshop, plus everything I could beg, borrow, and steal. She's now the equal of -"

Watson interrupted him, pointing to the left bulkhead, which was once again covered with electronics. "Where did you get an AN/ALR-66B(V)3? And what did you do to it?"

"A what?" said Hardesty.

"It's the ELINT/MASINT unit from P-3 Orions! Navy. I think you Brits would call it top shelf. It's fucking state-of-the-art intelligence gathering equipment, and sure as hell shouldn't be in some whack job Warrant's 'workshop'!"

"Where I got it, or how, is irrelevant," said Vanner in a tone that would have frozen boiling water. "It's now installed here. I gather that you're familiar with it?"

"Basic familiarization, yeah," said Watson, much more subdued. "I can hum a few bars, but that's about all. Does it come with the flight engineer too?"

"What about you, Captain?"

"Not a bleeding hope! I just aimed at the enemy when they told me to make him go away. Avoided any duties with the Weasels; once you climb in, they never let you out to play with the good toys!"

"Good thing it's hooked into Grez as well," said Vanner. "She can process and analyze the signals. There's your flight engineer."

"Jesus."

"And over here?" Hardesty motioned to the right, where another electronic suite of instruments was mounted.

"That's my little addition. ECM suite, complete with flares, chaff packs, and a pair of drop drones that can be programmed to simulate her profile."

"I recognize the ALQ-99 and the ALQ-100," said Hardesty. "They're from your Prowlers, aren't they? And they imply the presence of the jammer pods, am I correct?"

"The ALQ-99, yes. Only two of those, instead of five, so not quite the same capability. I had to sacrifice something for my last surprise."

"What's that?" said Watson, resignedly. "The rotary missile launcher from a Spirit?"

"No," replied Vanner seriously. "Too large for the bay, and I couldn't get one in time. You'll have to make do with four AGM-88 HARMs."

"Bullshit. No way you got one HARM, let alone four."

"No shit, Colonel. See for yourself." He led them back, through the converted cabin, to a locked hatch. When opened, it revealed the rear of the bomb bay. He stood aside.

"Down there."

Before Watson's unbelieving eyes lay a smaller rotary launcher, loaded with the promised HARMs. Their wingspan just cleared the bomb bay walls, but they gave the Backfire a totally unexpected anti-radar punch. A very long-ranged and hard-to-spoof punch.

"How did you get these? And where?"

"Friends in high places," said Vanner, cryptically. "Well, maybe low places. It's amazing what you can get when you ask nicely and have a friendly Uncle."

"Wild and wooly time again?" said Hardesty with a predatory grin. For once, if it got too wooly, he could finally hit back.

"Let's just say that the Kildar believes in being prepared." With a clap of his hands, Vanner changed the subject. "I think, Colonel, you'll find that she handles better than the Backfires you may have flown before. I took advantage of the additional..."

===============================

The search for Gereshk's bomb began, naturally enough, at the Kremlin, and spread outward, while other troops were ordered from the periphery of the city inward. Progress wasn't steady, or even, as the various districts had differing mixes of residential, commercial, industrial, and government buildings. Security ranged from adequate to nonexistent, but they couldn't judge the risks simply by the security levels. They had to physically enter each structure to examine them. This led to much bitching, some light five-finger discounting, and, after several hours, very bored troops.

"I don't care why we're out here. It's stupid!"

"Shut up, Lavrenti!" snapped the sergeant in charge of the detail. "We do as we're ordered! Game, exercise, they can call it what they will - what if this was for real?"

"You know where I was, Sergeant?" said Lavrenti, seeming to concentrate on his counter.

"I don't care! You're here, so pay attention!" Sergeant Feliks, like most in the Russian army, was simply a second-year conscript selected by his company commander, unlike NCOs in other armies who had to earn their way through ranks. It was an odd holdover from the Soviet system from the days when the mandatory term of service was reduced to two years. The atrocious pay, miserable conditions and near-constant low-level conflicts discouraged most from reenlisting, so it became common to simply appoint 'instant sergeants' from men who had completed their first year.

The practice, and problem, remained, even though the Soviets were long gone. This led to sergeants existing who had little more real experience than the men they were leading. Disrespect and disobedience were the norm. Discipline tended to be harsher, as well, with a strong physical component. That might not be wise, here. On these exercises, one never knew when under observation. A single poor report and a man could end up a private again.

"I was on a furlough! Drysi was blowing me, when Grisha and Timur started pounding on the door to the flat! Just because I didn't answer the phone, they said I was -"

"A fucking pain in my ass!" When possible, it's best for troops to know - on some level of detail, at least - why they are doing what they are doing, beyond simply, "It's your duty!" Unfortunately, this exercise in 'crisis management' had descended upon them too quickly for proper briefings.

Only the sketchiest information had been given to the battalion commanders, and what filtered down the chain was increasingly distorted and inaccurate. All that was certain was High Command wanted them to take it seriously. That mean no corner-cutting, no half-assing the job.

Feliks' company commander was savvier than most and had restricted his news to that of which he was sure. That left very little to disseminate. The troops would come up with their own reasons. It was designed to make their lives more difficult. Some Kremlin hot-shot had a hair up his ass and was taking out on the troops. The rumors were flying.

"Take the Geiger counters. Go to every building in your assigned area. Search for an increase in radiation - your counter has already been set to block normal background readings. If you get a hit, report in. You will be told if that is the proper location. If not, you will continue your search."

That scanty information, with the addendum, "And don't screw this up!", was given to the company once 90% of the personnel had reported in, about 4 am. Then the squads were given their assignments.

Feliks' squad was one of eighteen assigned to the Komsomolsky District, which was an entirely adequate number. One problem arose from the squads being chosen in a seemingly random fashion. 'Go once you have sufficient bodies and NCOs.' It didn't matter that they came from different platoons, different companies, even different brigades. It left a hopelessly complicated chain of command that had to be sorted at each assembly point. As a result, much needed information failed to be passed along, leading to some squads doubling or even tripling up on some areas, while others were passed over entirely. Squads were in visual contact with each other, or completely isolated.

Feliks was commanding an isolated squad. In his opinion, the whole op was a Mongolian cluster fuck. The last command vehicle he had seen was over a half hour ago, and the number of squads he'd noted converging on areas he knew were ripe for looting was depressing. Then there was the chance that they'd stumble upon something they shouldn't see, like a Bratva safe house or gambling den. That would end him up face-down in the Moskva River.

"Timur! The warehouse is next!" The soldier, a second-year conscript who had flunked the abbreviated 'sergeant's school', waved in answer. He walked to the rusting corrugated walls and pounded on the door, which threatened to fly from its hinges from the unwarranted abuse. Not even the police came through here; what was the point of having a serious door if you had to replace it every week?

He turned and shook his head. "Move out," said Feliks. "Lavrenti, the sooner we get done, the sooner your girl can get back to your dick. Probably only takes one side of her mouth, you're so tiny." His men laughed; good, they were focusing on the complainer rather than the orders.

"Fuck you, sergeant!" But he raised the counter and seemed to conscientiously check the settings. "Ready. The sooner we get this done, the sooner I can get back. Do you think the sheep will be upset if you're late?"

===============================

Gereshk's men had reported that the army was much more active than the previous days, but none had dared get close enough to discover their purpose. Sometime overnight, the soldiers had spread throughout the city. Rumors were flying. Instead of releasing his men to investigate, Gereshk had held them back so as not to arouse suspicion. But, cut off from the outside, denied even the dubious pleasure of walking the dilapidated neighborhood, they were more on edge than usual.

So Gereshk did what any good leader would do: make work. After morning prayers, his men were ordered to inventory the supplies. That completed, the next task was a uniform inspection, which gave Gereshk plenty of opportunity to scream at his men for faults, real and imagined. Then, the worst duty he could think of: weapons cleaning. This is the task that occupied them when Timur's pounding resonated through the warehouse. The fedayeen were largely unprepared, with their weapons were scattered about, in pieces, being cleaned.

Quietly, Gereshk directed his men to the shadows at the far end of the building, gathering up their disassembled rifles, hoping that discretion would truly be the better part of valor today. Without their guns, his men had no chance. Pistols against rifles? Knives?

The latch finally gave in and the door creaked open, a figure silhouetted in the light. He came in casually, his AK-74M held loosely across the chest, not even pausing to allow his eyes time to adjust to the gloom. In short order, he was followed by five more, just as relaxed, who spread out in a loose perimeter.

The sixth, slightly more alert trooper entered, AK held at ready. He'd have to go first, and the rest might panic. He showed signs of having seen combat.

"Look alive, you useless fucks!" he barked, heedless of the echoes. Obviously the sergeant, thought Gereshk. He peered around with a definite sense of purpose before waving more of the squad in. The last man in was carrying - something. And he was looking at it closely. Too closely, too focused.

Gereshk gestured to his men, miming assembling the rifles. Whatever that Russian was looking at, it was bad news. Not now, by Allah! We're so close!

"Sergeant! I have a reading! Weak beta, but lots of gamma!" Gereshk could hear the excitement in his voice across the building. A Geiger counter! That's what he was carrying! And that meant the godless Russians were aware of them, aware of the bomb!

Stop, he thought. Only a fool takes counsel of his fears. We are Allah's warriors, and he shall protect us.

The sergeant's reply, and the ensuing conversation, was much more subdued. Gereshk imagined it from his days at MCTS:

Check it again, boy.

Yes, sergeant. Fiddle, fiddle. Same readings.

Let me see.

Right here, and here.

Good work, trooper. Voice is raised a little. Looks like we've found our target! Spread out, and for fuck's sake stay alert!

Gereshk was certain of this last, as he saw the sudden change in the attitude of the soldiers. From bored, almost contemptuous, they came alive, every fiber of their being poised to - to what? From the smiles on the troopers' faces, it looked as though they were ready to celebrate, not capture an atomic weapon. They looked to the door, then back to their sergeant, who was pulling out - a mobile phone? Not a radio? What was going on here?

Allah be with us! Could they believe this an exercise?

Maybe not Allah. Murphy was.

One of his men - he never found out who, it didn't seem important later - dropped the magazine for his AK-47 as he was trying to seat it. The metallic clatter rang out unmistakably in the dark silence, a sound every soldier knew by heart.

Immediately, the Russians froze in place. They knew they weren't alone in here, and they suddenly knew that this wasn't an exercise any longer. They were that disciplined, at least. Gereshk raised his own rifle, sighting in on the sergeant. He knew that if he could take him out, the remainder of the squad would be easy pickings for his battle-hardened warriors. His men followed suit, those with assembled rifles, waiting in the blackness.

The Russians forgot about the door behind them. Wide open. Spilling brilliant sunshine into the warehouse, silhouetting them. Sunlit halos of dust surrounded them, giving the scene an ethereal feel, if only briefly.

The deep crack of Gereshk's 47 rang out. Feliks would never again have to worry about the slackers in his squad, as the 7.62mm round blew his throat out the back of his neck. He stayed upright for a few seconds, his body dead, his spine severed, unable to move or warn his men.

He was amazed, as if from nowhere shadowy figures sprang up against the far wall. The sound of, 'Allahu Akbar!' rising from a dozen throats was the last sound he heard, and then he saw the man who cut him down firing cool three-shot bursts.

At least there was one professional, he thought. But it's not the Bratva? Then who...? He never got an answer, his body finally collapsing to the ground, his men falling around him. Dying, just as he was. Serves them right for giving me a hard time...

Despite the spray-and-pray manner of fire from Gereshk's men, five of the eleven Russians were down within seconds, before even returning fire. Soon enough, though, the higher voices of the 5.45mm AK-74 entered the argument, and both sides dove for cover behind anything they could find.

Some were faster than others.

Drawing on his experience, Gereshk dispatched four of his men with well-practiced hand signals to exit through the rear and circle around to the front. Unseen, they slipped away.

"We shall keep them busy," Gereshk told his remaining men. "The others will finish them. In the name of Allah, do not shoot our own! Take care, look first before you pull the trigger!"

The eight kept the Russians occupied, taking turns ripping off entire magazines. Gereshk stood and selected his target more carefully, choosing those who seemed to be moving toward the door, or looking for better cover, or moving to a flanking position. That wouldn't do.

The ambush team missed Grisha, the last member of Feliks' squad, positioned outside the warehouse just as the manual proscribed. One man held back to cover the exit, usually with a radio. But Grisha hadn't ever been given a radio, and mobiles, unless specifically authorized, were strictly forbidden, so he was totally unaware of what was occurring inside.

At the shot that laid out Feliks, his first reaction was to rush to his comrades' aid. Then his training, and his orders, came to the fore. His duty was clear: report. No heroics, no dashing to the rescue. As he listened, he could distinguish large numbers of weapons being fired, few of them by his fellows. One rifle against all that? Not today, thank you. He turned and sprinted for his command center down the suddenly empty street. The locals knew this sound of old, too, and knew better than to be witnesses to whatever was happening.

Modern Moscow.

There was no way to know that they'd missed a man, of course. When they re-entered the warehouse, the remains of the squad - three men, including the unlucky Lavrenti - were backing towards the door. They had managed to drop two of their assailants, but at the cost of three more dead. They'd moved into a multi-supporting stack and were deliberately, calmly retreating under fire.

The 7.62mm hail cut all three down in the merest eye blink.

They closed the flimsy door, now shot full of holes, behind them. It allowed in a mottled network of sunlight that was strangely beautiful in the wisps of cordite and dust.

Gereshk didn't waste time sanitizing the area, policing the casings, or even burying his dead. He gave them the quickest prayer he could to speed their way to Allah as martyrs, then began issuing orders.

He suspected that there had been a sentry. Doctrine called for it, but his ambush team hadn't seen one. There might even have been a vehicle, though unlikely in this urban setting.

In any case, it wasn't worth the risk; it was time to move the weapon. Not too far, though. Just far enough to penetrate the perimeter of the search, find a building that was 'clean'. Then his surviving men could be sent on their way, and the plan could continue.

He smiled as the truck's engine caught. Praise Allah, none of the bullets had gone near it, or the weapon. There was still time, and a chance.

===============================

Word of the firefight in downtown Moscow reached Mike as his ad hoc strike team was arriving at the airport.

"Any details?" he asked Anisa, monitoring the radio in the Hind's crew compartment.

"Not many yet. This private heard firing and ran for it - he says it was a standing order. Nothing else yet on our intercepts or from our local resources in Moscow. The girls back in the Cave are attempting better penetration. If they get confirmation, or a location, they'll pass it along."

"Whatever. He doesn't know anything, just followed orders and hightailed it out of there? Lucky prick. Well, let's try to keep him and a few million Muscovites alive a while longer, eh?" He paused, thinking. "I know this is asking a lot from the CIA, but do we have map coordinates on this data?"

"No. We've got an address, that just came in. And we've been told that troops from the 2nd Guards are being redeployed, but they haven't even made entry yet. There's a strong opinion that it's a Bratva operation; it's that sort of neighborhood."

"How long ago did that kid say the firing started?"

"Almost an hour ago, now. Perhaps longer. We have data conflicts on the exact time. Rule of thumb, according to Grez, is split the difference on the side of incompetence. These are Russian troops, after all."

"Fuck! More than enough time to move the package." Mike fumed. "What were they thinking, calling it all an exercise? If you're going to flood the town with troops and scare the shit out of civilians, what's the fucking difference? Maybe if they'd known the truth, they might have been more alert and aware, and maybe even alive now!"

"Agreed, Kildar."

"Okay, you hold down the fort until we're ready to go. Anything new, make sure the Cave knows it gets fed to us en route." He disconnected, removing the headset as the Hind flared out next to the altered Tu-22M. Before Naida could get there, Mike was at the hatch and out. He simply pointed at the boarding stairs before striding quickly towards the plane. In passing, he noted that the plane had received a paint job.

"Vanner!"

His Intel specialist poked his head out the door and looked down at his boss. "Hey, Kildar! Up here!"

Bounding up the stairway, Mike said, "Are we ready to fly? How soon can we be airborne?"

The smile disappeared from Vanner's face instantly. "Half an hour. All the new equipment checks out, we just need to fuel her up and we're hot." A ghost of the smile returned. "Did you see the logo? On the tail?"

Impatiently, Mike answered, "No, we got some hot information from Moscow en route. For once the CIA had its ears out and got it to us before the fucking Russians."

"You ought to look," said Vanner before returning inside. "I'll set up a link with the Cave so we can go live on the feed here. I need to give them instructions, anyway."

Behind Mike, Vil's truncated team was trooping across the tarmac, loaded down with their rucks. A couple had seen something on the plane and were grinning, pointing to the others. The grins spread. Cheering started, and a few began to sing their version of a classic poem.

"Tiger, tiger, burning bright!" The rest wasn't fit for mixed company. Someone - probably the Chief, though MacKenzie might have had something to do with it too - had helped them filk the poem properly.

Curiosity aroused, Mike made his way down the stairs and looked back at what looked to be a very expensive paint job on his new aircraft.

Against the standard gray radar-absorbent and heat-dispersing paint stood the logo of the Mountain Tigers, a snarling tiger against a blue background. Almost against his will, Mike smiled as well. "Ah, hell. It looks good." Wondering how much it cost him, and what other surprises awaited him, Mike waved his men forward. Fast plane or not, time was a-wastin'.

He still held to the saying in SpecOps: "It sucks to be a hostage." Didn't matter if it was a person or a city, odds were, you were going down with the tango. In this case, there wouldn't be a letter of condolence to write to the victim's family. How do you tell a nation you were sorry that millions of her citizens were just vaporized?

If Moscow died, but Putin lived, he'd extract some vengeance on him. No Lasko this time, no single shot mercy. No. He'd pay. Maybe he'd let Kat and Cottontail play with him a while. Or was that too cruel? Naah. Fuck him. He'd heat the needles himself.

"Alright, shake a leg! Vil, you get these men settled in fast. Vanner'll show you where to stow the gear. Jitka, Irina know you're running around with other men? Darin, don't drop that rifle! Sveryan, ready for some urban sniping?" The men, encouraged as he greeted each, smiled widely as they climbed into the plane.

Cargo storage had been adapted under the crew compartment, and quickly the packed rucks were settled. There were plenty of clips and cargo netting for the gear, even an empty space labeled, 'Loot or Prisoners'.

The men took their seats and tried to relax. Trucks, they knew. Helicopters, they were at least familiar with. But, like most Georgians, none had ridden in any kind of plane before, let alone a converted Russian bomber. The first-class seats went a long way into easing their transition. About a third were asleep before the doors were dogged shut.

The stragglers, Arensky, Grez, and Anisa followed closely, with Adams and Katrina bringing up the rear.

"This will not be as much fun, will it Michael?" asked Kat, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

"Don't know," he admitted. "It's got a hell of a punch, so we ought to go like a bat out of hell. I don't know what Pat's managed to do to the interior, though."

"Let's see, then. I'm sure it will be fine. I heard Stasia telling him of people she knew in Tbilisi." He went pale for a few seconds.

"Bet it's all wires and gadgetry, with benches for the troops," grumbled Adams.

Katrina's squeal of surprise disabused him of that notion, and even Adams was impressed when he finally cleared the door.

"Fucker does good work," was all he'd admit to though. "Window. You'll need to check with comms more than me, dickhead."

"What makes you think I'm sitting next to you?" retorted Mike, mentally adding up the costs. Uncle Sam, through Pierson, might buy the bird, but he didn't think anything outside the needs of the mission would be expensed out. Vanner'd better have a justification for everything, or his budget would suffer. Then, Vanner would suffer - Grez didn't take kindly to budget cuts.

Mike was smiling again by the time he arrived in the cockpit with Hardesty and Watson. "So, Colonel, you think you can get this bird off the ground?"

"Damn straight," said Watson. "I was a little worried when I saw what your Warrant did to her, but Grez'll fly circles around anything else in this part of the planet."

"Grez?" asked Mike, confused.

"Didn't he tell you?" said Hardesty. "He's named her. After his wife, apparently."

Mike thought. "Appropriate enough, if a bit surprising. Trying to stay on her good side." Just then Vanner entered the cockpit as well. "'Grez'?" asked Mike.

"Well, I suppose I could have gone with 'Vengeance' or 'Fuck you', but..."

Mike laughed. "If she's half as good as the original, the name will fit. Looks like you've worked a minor miracle in here," he added.

"It's amazing what comes out of the woodwork when you use one of these," Vanner replied, pulling out a black card. "Afraid I may have put a bit of a dent on it," he said sheepishly, handing the Titanium card to Mike.

"How did you get - did the Mice hack my account again?"

"Not that I'm aware of," answered Vanner seriously. "No, Stasia gave this one to me. She said to tell you, ah, and remember this is a quote and NOT me saying it, 'payback from a bitch is a bitch too.' She said this was a different account, something she charmed out of your bankers a while back."

Mike groaned.

"Whatever. Okay, let's get this show on the road."

"I've filed a flight plan, direct to Moscow's Vnukovo airport - they weren't happy about that, but your Mr. Vanner did something," said Hardesty. "I assume you wanted to park upwind of any fallout. Again?" Mike looked the question at Vanner.

"I thought about Paris, then I called Chechnik. Vnukovo's usually used for domestic flights only, not international. He arranged it all. Bet me five hundred, US, that Putin'd stroke out when he hears about Grez."

"But it's the closest, both to us and to central Moscow, and the runways are long enough to handle the Backfire," added Watson. "And do me a favor, please, Kildar?"

"What's that, Colonel?"

"Don't talk to me about Paris. I don't know, I don't want to know, and I really, really don't want to get stuck ferrying Beavers around Greenland because you opened a compartment I'm not cleared for. I'm going to pull a Schultz and fly the Lady where she's bound."

"Flight time?"

"About eighty minutes, including taxiing and getting to altitude. We could perhaps manage to shave ten minutes off that, but I want to leave a little in reserve," answered Hardesty. "Just in case of a second sunrise and we have to pull the first-ever aerial J turn at full burners."

Mike nodded, thinking it wise to leave some fuel for maneuvering. They might already be too late, or they might be leaving in a hurry, dodging AA and SAMs. Then he realized the number Hardesty had quoted.

"An hour and change?" said Mike incredulously.

"An hour in the air, given current conditions. The rest on the ground. Yes."

"Holy shit." This plane had - potential. Lots of it. It was all about force projection, and suddenly the Keldara were going to be able to reach the entire Middle East with ease.

"That assumes we use full military power the entire flight. And the takeoff," warned Hardesty. "I hope the new seating holds up."

"Don't worry," assured Mike. "Stasia's not aboard today, and I don't think the boys are going to react quite the same way. Some are already asleep. You do what you need to do, John, Colonel. The plane is yours." He couldn't resist. "The target is Moscow. Make it so." He didn't do the hand gesture; that was just a bit much.

"Very good, Kildar."

===============================

"Tbilisi tower, Kildar One, holding short at runway three one, request permission for takeoff." Watson settled his hand on the throttle, and Hardesty mirrored his action. Both would be needed when they received clearance.

"Kildar One, you are cleared for departure runway three one."

"Roger, Tbilisi tower," answered Watson. "On my mark, we go full military and hang on. We'll hit the burners as soon as we're out of ground effect. Make sure our airspace is clear."

"Grez, five-kilometer warning, please. Notify of any hostile emissions. Any contacts, immediate countermeasures plan Charlie."

"Roger, Captain Hardesty," the sultry voice responded smoothly, if somewhat artificially.

Together they pushed the throttles forward, standing on the brakes.

The twin Kuznetkov NK-25 turbofans suddenly grew deafeningly loud as power quickly built. In seconds, he released the brakes and the Backfire fairly leapt forward. Within a few hundred meters she was airborne and climbing at her maximum fifteen meters per second. The variable-geometry wings were pulled back into a delta for maximum speed, and they flashed through the air.

As they passed five hundred meters, the afterburners kicked in, pushing everyone back into their seats.

"That's one problem you missed!" yelled Mike over the noise. "Soundproofing!"

"I'll work on it in Moscow!" promised Vanner. "I thought the tiles would be enough!" But Mike wasn't listening, he was leaned over and saying something to Katrina. He shrugged and pulled out his master tablet, began checking on the AI heuristics and settings. He was pretty sure it was all dialed in, but it didn't hurt to check. Let the guys up front think it was the airplane doing the magic. Who said the flight engineer had to be in the cockpit?

Adams was already asleep. His snores almost overwhelmed the roar of the engines.

No one noticed when they broke the sound barrier except a few mountain goats and one unfortunate Chechen who had, miraculously, evaded all the Georgian patrols. The sonic boom reverberated off the steep mountain slopes, starting an avalanche of snow and mud that buried him for all eternity.
CHAPTER 50

Moscow

April 18

On the ground at Vnukovo, Mike was still goggling at the time. Seventy-three minutes. They hadn't even changed time zones, which led to the pleased realization that, whatever happened, he wouldn't have to deal with jet lag.

As they taxied toward their parking spot, well away from any commercial terminals, Vanner was already on a phone with - someone. Russian, by the sound of it. Made sense. He motioned Mike to wait. The plane stopped at their designated area. Mike could see the ground crew looking up, slack jawed. He smiled.

"I need the card," Vanner mouthed silently, hand over the mouthpiece.

Wordlessly, Mike handed over the Titanium card. He heard the words "fifty thousand rubles" and "two hours" before Vanner started reading off numbers.

The call was soon over.

"What was that about? And you do know the Russians are the number one credit card thieves after Nigeria, right?" asked Mike after reclaiming the card. No point in leaving temptation with Vanner.

"Soundproofing. While we were in the air, I did some research, found a firm that does that kind of thing. They'll come out to Vnukovo, do the job on site. Seems that they have some extra tiles, supposed to go in the first-class section of the 747, that they're willing to give up on the cheap. And I wouldn't worry about them stealing the card; I hacked into their system before calling. They try to access it for anything besides this little transaction, it all blows up on them. Plus, a Brit owns the company; Bridgewater vouched for him."

"Just don't let them tear the plane apart. We might be leaving in a hurry," warned Mike. "If they're on board when we boogie, they come with us."

"I'll brief 'em when they board," assured Vanner. "Might have to promise a bonus, then."

"That's capitalism. What else?"

"I think Watson's already arranged for refueling, through a separate cover account. Don't want Putin to know about our little surprise too soon, though I don't know what we can do about the crew. A security team might be a good idea."

"Arrange it. You stay here, handle the bird with those two. Stay in touch." By now Mike was the last one on board.

"Good luck."

Mike snorted. "Or something."

===============================

"He's here?!" bellowed Putin into the phone. The vein in his forehead throbbed visibly.

"Yes, Minister. He and a team of Keldara, and some specialists, landed at Vnukovo a few minutes ago."

"And in a fucking Backfire! Where did they get that?" The spittle reached across the meeting room table.

"Apparently, the Georgians are being very cooperative," was Chechnik's bland reply. Privately, he admired Jenkins' balls at flying a former Russian plane into Moscow, especially a bomber.

"Did nobody know they were coming? Why wasn't I informed?" The voice had turned to ice, and he even looked calmer. That meant trouble. Other experienced staff members quickly and quietly vanished, remembering places far away they needed to be that instant.

"Minister, I was just informed myself that they arrived, they were in the air less than an hour. It completely took us by surprise. With the search going on, communications have been somewhat chaotic," said Chechnik, carefully ignoring the first question. It was fortunate that he'd chosen to call this report to the Prime Minister; if he'd been present, he doubted he'd survive the spittle.

"And we're sure that Jenkins is here?" persisted Putin.

"Yes, Minister. Along with members of his command team, and a few Keldara warriors."

"The warriors don't matter," said Putin, suddenly thoughtful. "Jenkins does. I want him followed - no! I want you with him at all times. Go and meet him."

"But, Minister, someone has to coordinate the search -" Chechnik didn't feel that he ought to mention that Jenkins had already imposed that condition, but to not protest wouldn't be believable.

"No excuses, Chechnik! You have a deputy, yes? And he is capable of this? Or should I have him shot for incompetence as well?" Chechnik didn't see any point to replying. "You will take a homer and meet with the Kildar. I will know where the bastard is at all times, do you hear me?" The Or else was unsaid; the throbbing vein added its own punctuation to the threat.

"Yes, Minister. May I ask why?" A homing device. That was going to piss Jenkins off. Maybe he ought to warn him once out of earshot of Putin's pet dogs

"No, you may not! Suffice it to say that I do not intend to let him interfere in Russian internal affairs again with impunity!" Putin allowed a horrible smile to cross his face. "I have special plans for that - that - cowboy!"

Cowboy. That was rich. Putin was a rodeo clown, Jenkins, a skilled operator. But he allowed none of that to color his tone.

"Yes, Minister," Chechnik answered to a dead line.

This didn't sound promising.

===============================

Gereshk and his men evaded the patrolling squads easily. They were ordered to search buildings, not vehicles, so the battered lorry passing through the city streets raised no alarms, even though one Geiger counter screamed when it passed by. It knew that a gamma source was nearby. The soldier holding it looked around quickly. All he saw were parked cars and one receding truck half a block away, so he hit it. Twice.

The alarm died away. He assumed that it was simply malfunctioning and chose not to say anything to his squad leader. They'd already been chewed out for surging into a dentist's office ready for a firefight. Even though Higher wouldn't admit to it, they'd all heard of the other squad's fate, and to a man had resolved that wouldn't happen to them, no comrade! It wasn't a game or exercise any longer.

The patrols in the Komsomolsky district were all moving from the center of the city towards the periphery, so Gereshk ended up closer to his enemy's heart than when he began. He passed three more foot squads and had even shadowed an army truck along an avenue for a while, before he settled on a new location. A small bakery off Khoromniy Tupik, with a 'closed' sign on the door, seemed to be the perfect safe house. For now. Unless the patrols began to double back, but no point in inviting Shai'tan's mischief.

The back door was only secured by a simple latch bar. A surreptitious knife raised it out of the way, the age-stiffened door was quickly forced, and the bomb brought in. Nobody noticed another truck making a routine delivery.

The room to the rear was a storage room; fifty kilo bags of flour lined both concrete walls. Crockery, filled with starter culture, perched precariously above the sacks. The next room in was the kitchen. An ancient brick oven, still warm from its last use, stood in one corner, though no wood or coal was set up for the next day. So - nobody was expecting to bake tomorrow. Or they were simply lazy; that was always a possibility. They'd find out soon enough.

Large dough mixers and industrial-sized ovens crowded the space, so the bomb was left in the back. The front, lined with plate glass, was small and dark. There was plenty of bread for the men, if a bit stale. Between that and the leavings in the walk-in, they could make a soup. That would settle the men down.

Gereshk felt secure once the lorry was moved, parked a block away. It was small, perhaps, but he didn't have as many men any longer. The sturdy concrete walls would prevent any unwanted intrusions, and the relatively lightweight wooden roof was built to allow for adequate ventilation.

Wood, which stopped gamma radiation not at all.

===============================

The sedans the Russians had provided were roomy enough, if somewhat old. No matter, they would do. Mike would have preferred old, heavy Army trucks.

He wanted that high vantage point, able to see beyond the car immediately ahead. He could use them to bulldoze through traffic, if he had to. And, since Padrek and his Team had been left behind, if he needed to force an entry, well, three to five tons of rolling steel made one hell of an entry.

Anisa and Grez already had their systems up and running, getting a continuous feed from The Cave and Stella. "Anything, ladies?" asked Mike politely through the back window.

"Some details about the firefight earlier." answered Grez. "Looks like the Russians pretty well got slaughtered. They've recovered thirteen bodies, only two of which weren't Russians."

"Any ID yet? Even tentative?"

"No. They've cut back dramatically with their radio chatter, almost as if they knew we were here and wanted us dependent on them. Either that or someone's just being a fucking asshole. One or the other. I do have an address, though," she finished sweetly.

"Sounds like a place to start." He stepped away. "Let's move them out!" He waved to the other four sedans. The Keldara drivers responded with single beeps on their horns.

The drivers provided with the cars were huddled together by the plane, hulked over by a patently unhappy Keldara warrior selected to guard them. They'd made the mistake of assuming that they would be doing the driving for the Keldara. Mike had quickly disabused them of that notion.

To prevent any unwanted distractions, he'd had all their cell phones and radios collected while Anisa and Grez swept the sedans for monitoring devices. It had only taken one would-be driver being hauled bodily from the wheel, turned upside-down, and shaken, before the other four produced their own devices post haste. That one driver was now secured with rigger tape; Adams promised that he wouldn't go anywhere, and that he might even keep his hair. Well, except for that one stripe.

He climbed into the limousine the Russians had provided, noting that it was a Mercedes and the driver had been replaced by Jitka, followed closely by Arensky, Adams, and Kat. RHIP. It was the nicest one, after all.

"I didn't like that plane," announced Kat. "It's too noisy!"

"Vanner's working on that," assured Mike. "But yeah, it's not a 550. Tolegen, you're our WMD expert. What do you know about this particular design?"

Settling back into the seat, Arensky began to recite. "The RDS-46. A warhead, precisely, not a bomb. It was never designed to be dropped on a target by a plane, but rather delivered by an ICBM. The SS-6 Sapwood, it was called by the West, but it is properly the R-7 Semyorka."

Even though he was impatient, Mike knew better than to interrupt the expert in full lecture mode. Sometimes, you had to bite the bullet. Besides, he'd be able to take it out on some poor muj bastard soon enough, he felt. They'd find the bomb, he was sure of it. Then they'd have to get out of the city without getting dead. That might be tougher. He tapped Jitka's shoulder, and the impromptu caravan pulled out.

"Nominal yield is five megatons, achieved through the Teller-Ulam method where a small fission device is used to trigger a larger fusion explosion, which in turn triggers another fission reaction. Typically, a RDS-46 would have either an impact or altimeter trigger, depending on whether it was intended for a ground or air burst."

Mike had to ask. "It needs to be at an altitude to function?"

"Oh, no, not at all," answered Arensky, not at all disturbed by the interruption. Intelligent questions, he could tolerate. After all, it allowed him to expound further. "Those are simply the most common triggers, and either one can be simulated on the ground. For example, hitting the detonator with a large sledgehammer would activate an impact trigger quite nicely."

Mike gulped as Arensky continued. "Or, if you had the altimeter type, you could simply adjust the detonation setting. Say you knew you were two hundred feet above sea level; you'd just manually set the trigger to detonate below two hundred feet - it works on air pressure, you see - and it would detonate almost immediately. Even if you don't know your altitude, you can simply dial it down until you found the proper setting."

"And how would you know the setting was right? Is there a tone or a light or something?"

This wasn't a smart question, and Arensky's irritation showed. "No. It would explode. Once it was armed, of course. Either way would require a martyr, as well, so perhaps that's not the method they would choose."

"Or maybe exactly the method," said Adams quietly. Mike nodded agreement.

"It would be quite simple to attach a timer, however, allowing for the perpetrator to escape. Radio triggers, or based on cellular phones, are also easy to assemble. If any of these men had experience with IEDs, for example in Iraq, or Afghanistan, then they would likely be familiar with the set-up."

"What kind of damage would a bomb like this do to Moscow?"

"Five megatons? Let me see..." He pulled out a calculator that looked like it was a refugee from the seventies and started punching furiously. A minute later, he looked up. "Assuming optimal yield, the fireball would be up to two kilometers across. Terrain, building density, those would alter the pattern, of course. Everything within that would be - should be - instantly vaporized. Everyone closer than about five kilometers would almost certainly be exposed to a fatal dose of radiation, even if they survive the blast effects and the thermal bloom. The proteins in the nerves simply cook and stop working. Quick, at least. Probably the best, as you'd be dead before the blast hit you. Those protected from the radiation would almost certainly perish from the thermal bloom. Horrible way to go. Oh, certainly there would be some scattered survivors - Hiroshima showed us that - but they would be very rare exceptions."

"Buildings would be severely damaged, if not destroyed, up to thirteen kilometers away. And the thermal bloom would cause third-degree burns, or worse, within twenty-five kilometers. It depends on how direct the exposure was at the moment of detonation. Once the fireball and pulse hit those closest, they'd be past caring anyway. It is those unfortunates in the twelve to twenty-five-kilometer ring that would suffer the most. The burns would be painful, but not immediately fatal. The radiation, too, would eventually kill them, but not swiftly. And they would almost certainly be caught in the firestorm, which could easily double the casualty rate even among those who might have survived initially. In short, Kildar, I would estimate the thought of this device going off as a Very Bad Thing."

Mike blanched. "Fuck me running. I knew nukes were bad, but this is one motherfucking big bastard."

"We'd better not be around when this goes off," said Adams. "At least we're lucky one way."

"Lucky?" scoffed Mike, incredulous.

"Yeah. An airburst would fuck up the city even more when it went off. At least when a ground burst goes off -

"We'd better not let it go off," retorted Mike. "How do you know so much?"

"I didn't sleep through all my briefings. Your thing is women, mine's nukes. I figured that I'd better know all I could about them, cause sure as shit one fine day my Team would be sent off to try to get one back. Thought I got past that when I retired, guess I didn't. But we have got to get this thing back, Mike. I can't emphasize that enough." With that, he leaned back and seemed to sleep immediately.

Mike knew better. He was simply getting his game face on, facing down his demons. He had them, just as Mike did. It didn't help that one of Mike's was sitting next to him, wiggling her ass, trying to get comfortable in full kit. He so didn't need her here now.

"What can you do about disarming it?" he asked Arensky.

"Disarming? My dear Kildar, there is nothing I can do about that! Not once it's armed, at least. Oh, I can dismantle the detonator assembly easily enough, but I haven't the training to actually disarm it!"

"Fuck me twice. Chief?"

"You expect me to know how to pull the plug on a nuke? Keep dreaming, buddy! I studied them, yeah, but what they can do, not how to take one apart. All I know is don't cut the blue wire. The blue wire is a lie." Adams laughed harshly.

"So where are we going?" asked Jitka over his shoulder. "We are approaching the center of Moscow, and I do not know these roads."

Kat turned her tablet to face them. "A warehouse in the Komsomolsky District of the North-Eastern Administrative Okrug. Ulitsa Panteleevskaya. Belongs to a company called Delfa, but there's nothing current in their database."

"The company legit?"

"Yes. I think the building was simply picked out at random. Jitka, straight here, then the next left to the overpass. Then I'll tell you what exit to take."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and turned his attention back to the road. Pedestrians beware!

"Grez said that some details were becoming available?"

Kat looked at the tablet. "Yes. It appears that a squad was doing a routine sweep, and almost literally stumbled across them."

"Any survivors?"

"Only the one posted outside who ran."

"He'll need to be available to question." Whatever Mike was going to say next was lost as his phone trilled. He glanced at the display and snarled. "Chechnik," he muttered.

"What?" he snapped, answering. As pissed as he was at Chechnik for his past decisions, he was twice as pissed at Putin. After all, Prime Minister and Puppet Master were very much alike.

"You are in Moscow now?" Rhetorical, but he'd answer it.

"Yes, you know that." Time for word games, then. Pay attention.

"Yes, I did. I have been ordered to accompany you and give you every assistance you need."

"Bullshit, Chechnik!"

"I swear, Kildar, the order to accompany you came directly from Prime Minister Putin himself!"

"And why should I trust the word of a lying prick about another lying prick?"

"Please, Kildar! I have my orders! I can explain more - later." There was a just-perceptible hesitation between the words. "I would be more convenient for us both."

Mike relented, remembering the conditions he'd imposed on Chechnik. "Well, if you're with us, at least I'll know you're not screwing us over. Fine. Meet us - where was the warehouse, Kat?"

"42 Ulitsa Panteleevskaya."

"You hear that, Colonel?" Let him wonder why he'd used his rank this time.

"I shall meet you there in twenty minutes," came the reply.

"Make it an hour," said Mike. "We want to look it over first."

"Very well, Kildar. An hour then. I am sure I can find someone else to screw over, as you say, in that time. Perhaps a mother with small children." Mike hung up.

"You trust him?" asked Kat.

"Not a bit. But there's a saying: keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. And I want Chechnik as close to us as possible. Once we find that nuke, he'll either keep us out of the line of fire or make a good meat shield."

Katrina seemed satisfied with that answer.

===============================

The warehouse was surrounded by a company of soldiers from the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division, although it looked like they had been ordered not to enter the building. Someone had, though. Bloody heel marks showed where the bodies of some of their men had been dragged out.

Mike looked around for an officer, finally finding one with the three small silver stars of a senior lieutenant on his fatigues.

"Pardon me Senior Lieutenant...?" he asked in English, playing the part of the ignorant American.

"Chopiak. This is a crime scene; you will have to move along."

"I think you are expecting us, Senior Lieutenant. Michael Jenkins, and the Tigers of the Mountains?"

A glimmer of recognition lit in Chopiak's eyes. "The American specialist, yes? I was briefed by Colonel Chechnik himself!"

"Yes."

"Please, one minute. I get my Captain." Switching to Russian, Chopiak yelled, "Pasha! Tell Captain Skipetroff the Ami and his lackeys are here!" A private dashed off.

Mike could see the fury in Kat's eyes. In Georgian, he said, "Calm down. It can be useful to not admit we understand them. It's a trick the Russians used to use to their advantage; let's turn it around on them."

"Lackeys!" she spat in the same language.

"It does seem we're not entirely welcome, doesn't it? Funny, that. You can accidentally spike that asshole's foot when you walk by, if you like." Katrina smiled, sunshine on a rainy day. Apparently, she approved of that, too.

An officer was approaching, obviously Skipetroff.

"Gospodin Jenkins? Captain Alexi Skipetroff, 2nd Guards," he began in better-than-average English. "I was only quickly telled of your arrival. My Senior Lieutenant, he was briefcased by Colonel Chechnik. I was making sure of problems looting. The troops, they wish to expand their pay, you understand?"

"Thank you, Captain. Yes, we're here to examine the scene. Will there be any problems with that?"

"No problems from my men, but the building is very unwell uplit." Katrina tried not to giggle at the officer's mistranslations as he tried to match English with the VIPs.

"You have some portable lights, perhaps?"

"None now, maybe some later. Difficulties dropping them here. The men, they are hunting overnighter. No food, no water, no rest. And now it is getting heavy with automobiles, making slow the trucks. Very badding fuck problem."

Katrina was almost laughing now and turned away to cover her amusement with a cough. Skipetroff looked on disapprovingly.

"You bringing girl here is bad idea. Very much blood. Take care not to up-Kuzma on the signs."

"Of course not," assured Mike, as the mangling continued. "She will not upchuck."

"Good. Is a bad place for a pretty girl." Without another word, Skipetroff returned to his men, saying, "Milenki! Follow the bitch with a shovel; when she pukes, make her clean it up!"

And on that note, the Keldara entered the warehouse.

Skipetroff wasn't kidding. The entrance wall was liberally splattered with blood and bits of bodies, marking the impact of the Chechens' rounds. Mike didn't spare the luckless soldiers so much as a glance, however, passing through them to examine the other end.

"Vil, nobody gets in or out without my say-so."

"Understood, Kildar." A gesture, and Georgi Makanee and Nicolai Mahona positioned themselves at the door.

"Who has the Geiger?"

"I do, Kildar," said Hadar. Their version was much smaller and considerably more advanced than the Russians' issue.

"I want you up ahead. Sweep the area. We need to know if the bomb was here or if this is just Murphy fucking with us again. Dr. Arensky, please accompany Hadar and help interpret." The two men moved forward.

"Anisa, did you bring your camera?"

"Of course, Kildar. You want pictures of the dead men uploaded and sent through our facial recognition programs?" she said tartly. The two muj bodies still lay where they fell, unlike the Russians, and, better still, their faces were untouched. It looked as though one had been shot in the back and the front - deliberate? Or just a friendly fire fuck-up? He looked more closely.

Ass and lower back. Yeah, that would make you jump right up, incoming fire be dammed. Sucked to be him.

"Yeah," Mike said. "Ought to know better than to tell you your job."

"Yes, you should," she agreed, and began taking pictures. Definitely too much time in the Cave. The half-hour sleep she'd caught on the flight had only served to make her grumpier. Just great.

Mike walked back to the Russian bodies. "Chief? What do you think?"

"Stupid fuckers never had a chance," said Adams, shaking his head and looking up from his examinations. "Doesn't look like they came in ready at all. No NODs, hell, two of the silly shits still had their 74s on 'safe'," he said disgustedly. Taking a flashlight, he pointed to the far walls.

"See those shot patterns? They were firing blind from a south-eastern facing door. Sun behind them, out-fucking-lined them, just like being on the range. Didn't give their eyes a chance to adjust. Bunched up like a bunch of sheep instead of spreading out and seeking cover. NCO should've known better, maybe he did. His body's gone, but you see the blood pattern? He was targeted, not just shot at. Means he was seen as a threat by someone over there and deliberately taken out."

"The muj weren't much better," he continued, shining the light on the entrance wall. "At least they knew what they were aiming at. And then there are those last three - or first three, you could say." He pointed at the bodies closest to the door.

"See that? All shot in the back. Someone knew his tactics and sent a squad around to hit 'em from the front door while they occupied them."

"Perhaps someone who spent a couple years at MCTS, you're thinking?"

"Could be," admitted Adams. "Somebody knew his shit, at least." He rolled over a body. "Pretty good grouping on this one, and three shots right through the target. Same blooding as from the NCO's missing body. Either this bunch has two leaders thinking, or one guy took 'em both out."

"Definitely better than your usual class of muj," agreed Mike. "That means he was here, and the Russians spooked him."

"I'd say he was trying to hunker down and let the sweep pass by, but something tipped them off," Adams said, turning over another body. "And I think I found it." Below the cooling corpse of Lavrenti, who would never get another blow job from Drysi, was the Russian Geiger counter, still clicking quietly.

"Kildar!" Hadar's shout called them back across the warehouse. He and Arensky were examining the reading on their counter.

"What've we got, Doctor?"

"It was here, Kildar," said Arensky. "And recently, too. Perhaps as little as two hours ago. The vestigial gamma decay regression function -"

"Was it damaged?" Mike asked hopefully, interrupting the technobabble. Getting it from Vanner was bad enough! If the firefight had hit the bomb and disabled it, they had all the time they needed.

"Probably not. The readings are consistent with a sealed casing. No hot spots, no fragments, no spalling."

"Damn! Okay, then why didn't the satellites pick it up? Was it too well shielded or something?"

"Not quite," answered Grez, walking up to the group. "It was shielded, but not like you think. See the ceiling?" she asked, pointing up with her flashlight.

"Yeah? What about it?"

"I wondered the same thing, so went up and looked. The roof is covered with lead sheeting to make it waterproof. These old concrete roofs are prone to cracking, so are typically sealed with lead."

"The gamma rays got stopped cold."

"Were blocked by the roof, yes. Loki's hand was at work here," she said.

"The Trickster favors nobody. Only the finger of Skadi shall reveal the truth among the lies, though it will bring pain to those it illuminates." Kat's voice, dreamy and ethereal, cut through the darkness. The Keldara froze as one, and Anisa and Grez made complicated gestures.

"Not now, Kat," muttered Mike. "Grez, Anisa, stay with her until she comes out of it."

"What was that about?" asked Adams quietly as the men walked away, leaving Katrina with the two women.

"She has these visions - had one while we were in the States, actually, and it scared the piss out of me, Jack and Stasia," he said, memory returning of Kat's warning. "She said, then, that Loki - he's the Trickster, you know - would be coming for me, that I needed to be pure of heart when he did."

"And you believe this shit?"

Mike shrugged. "Don't know if I do, but she - they - sure as hell do. We just have to deal with it. You know enough about the Keldara to know just how Viking they really are in mind and spirit." With a mental shake, he continued. "Okay. Keep 'em working, get every scrap of information you can off the bodies. I'm going to talk to our helpful Captain Skipetroff, see if I can interview the one that got away."

"Got it. Okay, Keldara! Stop gawking and get your asses back on task! Yevgenii, what the fuck do you think you're doing with that stick? Didn't your mother raise you any better than that?"

Skipetroff was outside the door, stymied by Georgi and Nicolai, who were doing their best imitations of statues - immobile, impassive, and seemingly uncomprehending the vicious stream of curses the Guards captain was hurling at them. A stream which halted abruptly when Mike emerged.

"Jenkins, please move your men."

"No. I need to talk to the survivor."

"I am confirmed to be examination with you, not preparing to stand outside!" In Russian, he called to his men.

"No. Where's the survivor? He's supposed to be available for me."

"You are guest here invited by yourself! If I am entering the building to want, then am I going!" Skipetroff pulled out his sidearm.

In a lightning move, Mike had the Yarygin Grach out of Skipetroff's unresisting hands and pointed at the stunned captain. The now-empty hand clutched the air in frustration.

Switching to fluent Russian, Mike gave up the game and let the man have it. "Listen to me, you puffed-up, pompous, pathetic excuse for an officer! I am here at the direction of the President of the United States and the invitation of Prime Minister Putin himself! I am here to do a job, and unless you want to spend the rest of your career watching icicles grow in Vladivostok you will produce the man I need to speak with now! Do we have an understanding?" To emphasize his point, Mike cycled a round into the chamber.

"Da, da!" said the Russian.

"Good," answered Mike, lowering the Grach. "You go get him. I'll wait here. And when you bring him back, you can have your little toy back," he said, waving the pistol.

Five minutes later, Skipetroff returned with a very nervous private.

"Don't worry," said Mike in Russian. "I just need to ask a few questions. Captain, your gun." He handed the Grach back to Skipetroff, butt first.

Skipetroff raised the gun quickly, thumbed off the safety, and pulled the trigger. Much to his surprise, the barrel of the gun dropped to the ground, followed by the empty magazine, firing mechanism - the only parts left in his hand were the trigger, guard, and butt.

"Problem, Captain?" asked Mike innocently, dropping the main spring, bullets, and a few lock pins on the ground. "Get lost." To the openly-grinning soldier, he said, "What's your name, son?"

"Grisha. Grisha Aleksandrovich Pumpianski, 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division, Company -"

"Grisha'll do. What do you remember, Grisha?"

"Sergeant Feliks was leading the squad..."

In a very few minutes, the story - at least as much of it that the lucky soldier knew - was told. It was clear that he had no idea what had happened inside the building, or what had been found.

A man-shaped shadow, thrown by the fading afternoon sun, fell across them.

"Chechnik!" said Mike without looking up. "What rock did you crawl from under?"

Grisha jumped to his feet and saluted. This was a Colonel from the Security division. They made families disappear.

"As you were," said Chechnik. "Kildar."

"Nicolai!" Mike called. "Over here!" The Keldara trotted over. "Search this prick."

Grisha looked shocked, and started to react, but Chechnik held up a restraining hand. "It's quite all right." He extended his arms.

Moments later, Nicolai handed Mike a cell phone. "That's all, Kildar."

"Smart, Chechnik," said Mike unwillingly, pocketing the phone. "Mind if I hold on to this? No? Thanks." Adams finally emerged from the warehouse.

"We're about done here, and - where the fuck did he come from?"

"Putin's whipping boy? He's been sent out to make sure we don't stick our noses where they don't belong."

"Can I shoot him?" asked Katrina, raising her M-4.

"No, Kat, not yet. We're on his turf. It just wouldn't be good manners."

"Quite amusing," said Chechnik to Mike. "It's not me I'd be worried about."

"What? You thought she was kidding? Redhead, Colonel. Un-fucking-predictable. You best stay on her good side. Which means me, and my troops."

===============================

The men and gear were quickly reloaded, and the tiny convoy pulled away. "Where to?" asked Jitka. He was clearly enjoying driving the Mercedes instead of a truck. He'd never sat in a car so comfortable! And the armored glass, and vehicular armor, he felt safe, even here in the center of Moscow. The dark-tinted windows gave the limo a dangerous appearance, and the traffic faded out of his way. Cars like that were VIP, military, or Bratva, and that meant men with guns.

"I don't want to just drive in circles, but I don't know my way around Moscow like I used to," admitted Mike.

"May I suggest?" said Chechnik, calmer than Mike expected.

"You can suggest," said Mike.

"There is a park nearby, Buman gardens. It is central enough for you to move from quickly, large enough to conceal all the vehicles. And the traffic should subside in a half hour or so."

"May as well. Chief, when we get there, get the troops fed. Water, coffee or tea only. No beer." He didn't have to see Jitka's face to know he was scowling, however briefly. Beer was like blood to the Keldara, but a situation like this, he needed his men totally straight. They could double up after.

Chechnik faced forward and guided Jitka through the traffic. Once stopped, the discussion resumed around a table outside. Tea was steaming in cups before them. The people wandering through the gardens would make eavesdropping more difficult, if they could get past Vil's perimeter.

"What do we know?"

"The bomb's here," said Adams.

"It hasn't been here long; the residual radiation was dissipating quickly," added Arensky. "Not long enough to create a permanent footprint."

"It was definitely Chechens," said Anisa. "We have positive ID for both men, but neither were listed as known associates of any rebel group."

"That means nothing," Grez explained. "They could have been new recruits, or simply more cautious and discreet than most."

"They're being led by someone with experience," continued Adams.

"And we know why the satellites didn't pick up the bomb."

"The roof. Chechnik, do you think you can get information from your assessor's office, or whoever oversees building and development?"

"Perhaps. What are you thinking?"

"While we wait for another satellite pass, we should see what buildings used lead in their roofs. That might narrow down the search."

"I will see what I can do. My phone, please?" Mike handed it over.

"Anisa, how long until we get another pass?"

"There's one overhead now," she answered. "We'll have the data in just a few minutes." Her fingers were flying over the tablet's surface. "Need to allow time for the Russian filters to do their work." She looked at him as if asking to cut through the song-and-dance and simply steer the bird herself. He gave a minute shake of his head. Thank the gods she wasn't one of the Mice; they'd have three or four birds parked in geosynchronous already. Wouldn't that be a joy to explain?

"What are you doing? Instead of what you wanted," he asked in Keldara.

"Seeing if there's a back door into the Moscow City Planner's mainframe," she answered in Keldara.

Mike shook his head ruefully. "Tell me again why I'm bringing you into the twenty-first century?"

"To rule the world, of course," said Grez easily.
CHAPTER 51

Moscow

April 18

Gereshk was finally alone now.

All his men received their instructions, and money, and had flowed out into the streets to mix with the commuters heading home. They disappeared into the sea of humanity easily; modern, cosmopolitan Moscow paid them no heed at all. He had bidden farewell to the last and closed the heavy steel door, throwing the ancient bolt to a horrendous screech. Small wonder it hadn't been locked.

The bakery was a good refuge. It appeared that the owner was on vacation for a week, so he wouldn't have to worry about an intrusion early in the morning. That didn't matter so much any longer. All he needed was another day. Less, actually. He planned to detonate the bomb at noon, the peak of the day, when the most people would be crowded into the city and the device could reap the maximum devastation, all for the glory of Allah.

It would also make the morning news in America. Another blow to the Great Satan, that even such a city as Moscow could be laid waste to by the defenders of the faith. Pity he wouldn't be around to enjoy it, but faith demanded martyrs, too. His only regret was that he would not be around to see the chaos, destruction and death he sowed.

Even if he'd planned to abandon the weapon - a thought which had occurred to him once or twice - that option was now gone. The timing mechanism had been damaged in the firefight, so he would be forced into an alternate method. More basic, less technical. The irony didn't bother him, that the product of the Russian's technology should come down to this: man, hammer, bomb. Wham.

Fortunately, this warhead had last seen life with an impact detonator, which had remained intact through shipping and subsequent events. One solid whack on the nose and the bomb should explode, bringing Allah's wrath down upon the Russian infidels.

Less than a day, now.

===============================

The Cosmos 2224 was part of a now-defunct missile launch warning system the Soviet Union had placed in orbit. Most observers assumed that it carried only visible spectrum and infrared optics, those being most useful for detecting the launch of any kind of spacecraft from Earth. However, the Soviets had also installed a rudimentary gamma ray detector, to help distinguish between a nuclear threat and other satellites such as commercial birds or NASA's shuttle fleet passing through its patrol area.

Although the network was now inoperative, some of the individual satellites still had power and fuel remaining, and so continued their task of examining the planet below for anomalies.

On this pass over Moscow, 2224 was active instead of sleeping. The general mobilization of all resources had reached far enough down the chain to order it powered up. It peered down from its lofty perch upon the bustling city. Numerous gamma sources were noted, recorded, and transmitted down to its control station before it returned to its dreamless electronic sleep.

Murphy couldn't prevent it transmitting; he had too much else on his plate. But it was a Russian bird, and so the Keldara lacked the same instantaneous access to the data as they had with most American satellites. Thus, it was nearly thirty minutes before the unexpected and totally unlikely gamma hot spot was downloaded to their server.

The action, and panic, when the alarms screamed more than made up for the delay.

===============================

"Bozhe moi!" The involuntary oath slipped from Lieutenant Sankovsky's lips as his terminal lit up. He fumbled for the phone.

===============================

"We have found it," announced Chechnik, closing his mobile. "Off Khoromniy Tupik. I'm having the data downloaded to you now, and the address."

"How far away?" asked Mike, already jogging towards the car.

"Two kilometers, perhaps."

Inside the car, Anisa was already tapping at her tablet. "Found it. Location matches that of a - Kildar, it's a bakery! Called The Black Loaf!" She called directions to Jitka, who dropped the car into gear, followed by the rest of the team.

"Fitting place for a fucking blackass Chechen bastard," growled Chechnik.

"Ah, ah, ah!" scolded Mike. "Remember, you turned him in, not the other way around. Come to think of it, I want you to stay in the limo. Out of sight."

"It is my duty -"

"Stuff your duty. I'm worried that, if he's still holding a grudge after all these years, one look at you and he sends us all to Valhalla. Second point, we're trained in stealth ops and in condition for it; you aren't. You'll slow us down and potentially blow our approach. So. In the limo, voluntarily or not. Your choice: I don't care. We have plenty of rigger tape."

"I hadn't considered that," said Chechnik. "Rigger tape not necessary. I shall remain here and await your success."

"You seem very sure of our abilities."

With a very Russian smile, Chechnik said, "I am. And if you fail? I shall never know it. One request, though, may I use my phone while I wait? I would like to keep track with my office."

"No, but don't worry. We'll leave you a tablet to play with," consoled Mike. "Something to keep you occupied. Anisa, don't we have one of the original designs? The ones for Shota and the Mules before his little operation?" he asked in Keldara, hoping that Chechnik hadn't mastered the dialect yet.

"I believe so, Kildar. I use it for entertainment. It's a wonderful e-book reader."

"You have some suitable ones uploaded?"

"Oh, I think so," she replied with a twinkle. "How about The Chinese Outlaw's Quiet Lady, The Parisian Heir's Depraved Captive, and The Italian Millionaire's Irrepressible Mistress? Oh, and I think I have a copy of Scientology on there."

"That's evil, Anisa. I don't even want to know why you have that last title." In Russian, he said to Chechnik, "I think we can make sure you're not bored."

Traffic was a nightmare. Although his Keldara were typical third world drivers, for such values of 'driver', there was little they could do with solid lines of cars and lorries blocking both sides of the road. Even Chechnik's help was only able to shave a few minutes off the total time, but soon enough Anisa announced, "Find a place to pull over. We don't want to get any closer, in case there are patrols out."

"Teach your grandmother to suck eggs," said Jitka.

That was the easy part. They simply stopped where they were, traffic and parked cars be dammed, and unassed. Horns blared, then died, as the impatient drivers took a closer look at the uniforms and the lethal-looking rifles. Military actions were not uncommon in Moscow, and the populace had long since learned how to deal with them: avoid making a scene and leave the area immediately. More than a few pulled as far off the road as they could, stopped, got out of their car and started walking. Quickly. When the shooting was over, they'd come reclaim their transport.

Anisa, through her hacks into the planner's server, had called up a blueprint of the bakery. It showed four rooms, plus a bathroom: a large public space in the front, an industrial kitchen, an office next to the kitchen, and a storeroom across the rear.

"Two entrances, here and here," said Mike to the gathered troops. "Only good line of sight is through the front; Sveryan, you'll need to find a perch. This location looks promising. There's an emergency ladder, but if it's in the same shitty condition most are, you'll need ropes and a grapple. You brought the Barrett?"

"Yes, Kildar, and the Mannlicher."

"Take the Barrett. We might need the heavier round."

"I understand. Penetration."

"And hold your fire until ordered! We don't know the situation; we can't have civilian casualties. But when I give the word, or you see action near the bomb - take the shot! Through people, if need be."

Sveryan and Gregor Makanee, his spotter, headed out.

"Vil, you, one squad and your heavies to the front. Your second leads the other squad and bottles 'em up at the rear. Heavy assault entry. If it's breathing when you go in, it's not when you leave. Do NOT shoot the bomb and remember your assigned vectors."

"Yes, Kildar."

"Katrina, you, Adams, Arensky and the girls follow along. Stay close but out of sight. I don't need my WMD expert or a big chunk of my Intel team at risk from a stray round."

"And why me, Michael?" asked Kat, anger at being behind the action evident in her voice and stance.

"You're there to keep a watch over them, you and the Chief. I figure between you, any random muj won't have a prayer."

"Oh," she said, mollified. "We can do that. The Chief's good enough to keep up with me." She dimpled.

"And Chief?" he said, rolling his eyes slightly.

"Yeah?"

"ake-May ure-say at-thay e-thay ick-pray ays-stay ith-way e-thay ar-cay. Tries to leave? Oot-shay im-hay. Understand?"

"Got it." Chechnik would stay with the car, or he'd be shot. Mike didn't like surprises.

"Anisa, can you shut down their phone and computer lines? Without dumping the power? That's step one in the official 'Take Down Terrorists' playbook the Russians use, and I think that Gereshk's clever enough to figure it out."

"Give me a few minutes and I can. Uh... How much of the network can I take down?"

"As much as you need. Get started." He turned to the teams. "We move when she signals that they're down."

The plan was simple enough. Mike would do the initial approach as if a regular customer and eyeball the interior. It was possible that the weapon had simply been planted in the store without anyone's knowledge, in which case it was his moral obligation to clear any civilians. It wasn't likely, though. Then it would be a hard and fast entry, nasty if there were hostages, but then it always sucked to be one of those. They'd deal with that fallout after the bomb was recovered.

More probably, the Chechens had taken over the bakery completely and were simply putting on a front, waiting. If so, if the Russian Army didn't screw it up, the Keldara would have the advantage of surprise.

"Kildar?" said Grez, looking up from her own tablet.

"What've you got?"

"I found their website. Apparently, this bakery closes at two every day." It was well after that.

"Shit." That made things simpler, in some ways, and more difficult too. If they were closed, he couldn't just walk in and look around. They'd be going in blind, or nearly so. On the plus side, they wouldn't have to worry about customers, and there might not be any workers around.

"Okay, change of plans. I'm going to enter through the back and look around, then signal." Nods all around. "Set teams for entry. God eyes, any watchers?"

"Negative, Kildar. No guards visible, nothing on thermal," answered Gregor over the radio.

In the failing light, Mike re-dressed.

No camo or makeup. Button-down shirt, coat, slacks, and he was a moderately successful businessman on his way home. The dark suitcoat's pockets concealed a couple of Vanner's toys, diminished the bulk of his Kevlar vest, and his Browning was in a holster under his arm.

Getting back into his casual sneak mode, he walked around the block to the storefront and passed by, totally disinterested in dark windows.

He didn't see any movement in his pass, but that didn't mean anything one way or another. He walked to the end of the block and doubled back quickly, ducking down an alleyway before he returned to the frontage.

Another alley, wider, led past the backs of the stores, obviously for deliveries. He shed the coat, shirt, and shoulder holster. He thought about shedding the vest, too, but decided reluctantly to keep it. He had to put it under the t-shirt, though, and that was going to be uncomfortable. At least it wasn't summer in the sandy-ass desert.

The Browning got tucked into his pants and hidden under the t-shirt, and the micro video system looked like a smart phone. In fact, that had been one of the design considerations. Now, he was just a worker taking a shortcut.

He stopped before crossing the window set into the steel door. He placed a hand on it. Solid. The lock looked easy enough; he'd been forced to renew his picking skills with Mouse's presence in the house. He had to be better, it was his competitive nature. No signs of wires for an alarm, though they could be mounted on the inside, though it was unlikely. Still, he had tools for that, too.

Kneeling, he threaded the fiber-optic camera under the door jamb and peered at the view. Nothing but sacks to the left, doorway ahead, and - bingo! Nuclear warhead, one each, partially crated for transport. Was the top open? He'd have to risk the window. The peek didn't reveal anyone inside the storeroom. His senses on high alert, he moved.

The camera was pulled back out and lifted to window level for an instant, capturing a quick view. He studied it. Poor resolution or no, he could tell that the back room was empty, so he risked a longer view.

===============================

"What are you doing?" asked Jitka suspiciously. Chechnik had retrieved his phone and was about to make a call.

"It is getting late, and my wife expects me for supper. I simply wish to call and tell her that I am delayed."

Jitka looked thoughtfully at him. No phone calls, that was the order. But a man, facing death, with family... He relented. "Very well, but I need to listen."

"Of course," Chechnik replied easily, dialing Putin's number. After a single ring, it was answered.

"Chechnik? Where are you?"

"Hello, dear! Sorry, I'm going to be late getting home."

Putin had spent fifteen years on active service in the KGB and quickly deduced the situation. "Has he found the bomb?"

"Yes, of course I'll be home tonight. It's simply a matter of wrapping up some work."

"Excellent! I am on my way, with the troops you had briefed. You did brief them?"

"Yes, yes. Very soon." Of course he had briefed them. Hand-picked them, too. Called in many favors and would owe many more if he lived through this. It meant that he could rely on them, at least.

"Good." Putin hung up.

"Love you too." He ended the call before the electronics witch could think to query his phone for the call's actual location.

===============================

Fifteen minutes of random observations had revealed no movement inside, so Mike decided to risk picking the lock. The mechanism itself was almost childishly easy, but age had nearly frozen the tumblers in place. Gently, slowly, he turned the tools, straining to hear the slightest scrape or groan of metal. Millimeter by millimeter, he felt it retract.

After what seemed an eternity, the bolt finally finished slotting home. Mike took another look through the window, gripped the door handle, tensed, and pulled.

The door moved about a quarter inch and froze. Barred. That took another five minutes of finessing with fishing line to lift and lower it before tying the line to the door handle to keep it from dropping. Silence was his ally. "Can you guess my name?" he sang quietly as he pushed against the door.

"Damn!" he swore under his breath. He felt the first tremors of resistance from age. Maybe the door was warped, too. That'd figure. Probably should've gone with the explosives entry, but too late now. Besides, he was stubborn and determined to see it through his way. Truth be told, he was enjoying the challenge.

He patted his pockets, hoping to find some sort of lubricant. Graphite, silicone, anything.

Shit. Nothing.

No time to search or wait. Wherever the Chechens were, they could come back at any moment. He had to hope that they hadn't left anyone behind to guard. They could be in evening prayer, making peace with their god. Fine. He'd introduce them.

With a surge, he yanked the door open. One single screech of protest was all the door emitted, though, and he was through and in front of the bomb.

Nothing. No sounds, no movement. He stood on the balls of his feet, poised to move in any direction. He knew his men were preparing to make entry and back him up.

He stood and looked down into the box. Yes, that was it. Big, dull grey metal casing, open at one end - open? What was going on with that? Curiosity aroused, he looked down.

Ah. A hole in the box he hadn't noticed told the tale. The timer must've been hit, and they were trying to rig an alternate...

The shot hit him in the left shoulder and spun him around. Fuck! He'd taken just a second too long, forgotten the first rule of engagements: do your job, let others do theirs! He lingered at the bomb when he should have cleared the room and moved, leaving it for others. That was the fucking plan! He was getting old, rusty, or maybe just distracted. Too much shit going on. Too much to think about. All this while he continued the spin the bullet had started.

One man, dressed in faded Russian fatigues, holding an old Makarov PM 9mm. Dark hair, brown eyes, olive skin. Medium build. A couple scars Mike could just see in the semi-darkness.

"Away from Allah's vengeance," snarled the man, gesturing.

Carefully, Mike inched away from the box. Could he play innocent? No, probably not. "I'm moving," he said, activating the sub dermal transmitter. "It's just you and me." He clicked his teeth three times. That was the 'balls to the walls' signal. "All Father!" he heard in the earpiece.

"Faster!"

He inched a bit further, out of the entry lanes and lines of fire. He didn't need to be blue on blue again. It took him away from the bomb, and that's what the man wanted. Get him talking, keep his attention for a few more seconds. "How are you going to set it off? The timer's smashed to shit."

"Coming," said Adams in his earpiece. "Thirty seconds."

"You won't be around to see it, infidel! You and the rest of your city will be a glorious beacon to the faithful!"

"My city? I don't think so. I'm not from here."

"Keep him talking. Vil's working on the front door." Just blow the fucker! he wanted to shout but couldn't.

The muj was confused but the pistol didn't waver. "Kiev. St. Petersburg. Wherever. You have no business being here and will pay for your presence."

"I don't think so," contradicted Mike, still not moving any farther. It might piss him off, but he had to keep him focused on the immediate threat.

"Ten seconds," said Adams. "Fuck. Car. Twenty."

"No? Who will save you? Your Christian god? Your Jesus?"

"No. But where has Allah gotten you, Gereshk? You are Bursuk Gereshk, yes?"

"How do you know my name?" He took a threatening step towards Mike and away from the device. He was now perfectly in line with the door.

"Does it matter? I know your name, like I knew the late Emir. Haven't you wondered why you weren't contacted? Or are you too stupid to realize that you've failed?"

"The Emirate will never fall! Allah has revealed it to His servants!"

"Like Ibrahim?"

"Yes!"

"Ibrahim's dead too, and he was a fake. He lied to you all."

"Five seconds. Stand by to drop on my signal."

"No! Ibrahim was the best of us!"

"Now he's just like the rest of you - dead. You're it, Gereshk. The last one."

"Then I shall fall a martyr!"

"Drop!" Mike spun and fell to the floor.

Gereshk lunged forward towards him, pistol raised, but Mike was no longer there. Getting shot was one way to get rid of the rust. The adrenalin pumping through him made Mike move faster than the muj's eyes could follow in the shadows.

Three shots rang through the storeroom. All three rounds penetrated Gereshk's back and emerged perfectly in the sniper's triangle, below the throat and above the breastline, shredding the heart and lungs and spraying Mike liberally with blood. Gereshk's body collapsed to the floor, just shy of his goal.

He spat blood. Not blue on blue, but close. Still, a miss was as good as a mile, or some similar shit.

Vil lowered his rifle. "Sorry, Kildar," he said apologetically. "Towel!" he yelled over his shoulder.

"No problem, Vil. Nice shooting." He reached down and pulled the Makarov from Gereshk's outstretched hand.

"I'll take that," said Katrina, crowding in. "I can use it for practice."

"Sure," Mike said, bemused. He flexed his shoulder. There was a little grating inside, but no extra wetness, or the pain that came with full penetration. The vest had caught most of it. From the front, he could hear Vil's men bitching about not being able to use their demo packs and not having enough targets. He ignored them, and the pain. There'd be enough chances for them to wreak havoc.

"Okay. Let's get this packed up and ready to roll. We've got a long trip home!"

===============================

Fifteen minutes later, the trucks had been maneuvered through the alleyway and the bomb safely loaded. The impact detonator was separated from the bomb, in a different truck, in fact. No chance of accidental detonation.

They were outside debating what to do with Gereshk's body.

"Fuck 'em. Leave it to rot," was Adams' opinion.

"It's not fair to the shopkeeper," said Vil, the voice of reason. "He didn't ask for this." The letters for the owner's vacation had been found among the papers on the desk.

"I think -" began Mike but was interrupted.

"Drop your weapons!" blared a harsh electronically enhanced voice. They were suddenly, shockingly illuminated by floodlights. How had they snuck up on him, and who were they? Russians, for sure - but whose?

"No!" Mike said to Vil, who was beginning to raise his rifle. "They've got the drop on us. Let's see if we can talk our way out of this." Taking out his pistol and catching each Keldara's eye, they all, reluctantly, lowered their weapons to the ground. Even Katrina placed her precious M-4 at her feet. Her eyes promised murder, though. And it probably wouldn't matter who.

"Better." A figure, backlit, moved toward them. The stride proclaimed pride, and cockiness, at the same time. It was the stride of a man assured of his place in the world, and the power at his command. It was a stride that screamed, 'Incoming asshole!' to both Mike and Adams.

"Michael Jenkins. Kildar of the Keldara, leader of the Tigers of the Mountains. What a pleasure to see you again. I am pleased to tell you, you and your men are under arrest."

"Vladimir." Mike's voice dripped venom. "Did your lackey tell you where we were?"

"Oh, no, no need for him to tell me anything. We simply tracked in on his phone. He's been a good soldier today. Perhaps to make up for other mistakes, but I didn't take any chances."

"I see." The fury in Mike's eyes boded ill for Chechnik's future.

"So. You have completed your mission, yes? Retrieved the last bomb, and now like all good mercenaries you are going to skulk off into the night? I think, not."

"We're not mercenaries, Putin. We're simply helping out."

"And being very well paid for it, yes. All a matter of semantics, and totally irrelevant. You see, I've just captured a nuclear terrorist. That ought to help when I run for the presidency again - 'Vladimir Putin, Savior of Moscow'. Has quite a ring to it, doesn't it?"

"I don't care if you take the credit," ground out Mike. "Take the bomb, too. Be a hero, even though you let my men take all the risks and do all the bleeding again. We'll just be on our way." He turned as if to go, ignoring the arrest declaration.

"No! Not the stupid Chechen you gunned down," Putin clarified. "You."

"What?" He had to be fucking kidding! He locked eyes with Adams and nodded. This could get very bloody, very quickly.

"You were behind it all - the hijacking, the plotting, the emirate. All an elaborate plot to reap millions of dollars in blood money and take your revenge on Chechnik and me. You were going to allow this last sap to detonate his weapon in Moscow, murdering millions of innocent people, all to have your vengeance." Putin seemed to glow as he wrote his own copy.

"Very pretty story, Putin. One problem. None of it's true."

"No? And who will contradict me?"

"Besides me? And the United States government? And my entire staff? Gee, Vlad, you've really got me there."

"Nobody believes the Amis when it comes to the Motherland. And you and your staff will all be dead, so I really can't see the problem."

"Dead?" Oh, this was not on. Maybe Lasko should have taken the shot he wanted. Too late for that now.

"You didn't think I would leave you alive, did you? After what you did to me? Pity to waste such beautiful women," he added, staring at Anisa, Grez, and Kat. "But whores are cheap." Mike turned to glare at the bastard. He was going to take them down, hard, as soon as Putin spoke the order. The hand behind his back flashed a signal to his men.

Death and glory.

"Colonel, are your men ready?"

"Yes, Minister," said Chechnik, emerging from the shadows.

"Good. Farewell, Kildar."

A single shot from behind him broke the night. Putin looked down at the red stain spreading on his shirt. His mouth formed a surprised 'O', then blood gushed from his mouth down his chest. He tried to lift his hand to wipe away the offending mess as his legs collapsed.

"Who..?" He fell to his knees. "I had you," he burbled, and dropped on his face.

Unseen hands cocked unseen rifles. The Keldara reached for their rifles, or pistols, or even grenades, as they prepared for their invitation to Val Holl.

"Stop!" boomed Chechnik. "Rifles at port arms!"

Mike was totally bewildered.

Chechnik walked forward, nudged the Prime Minister with his foot.

"Is he alive?" said Mike.

"I sincerely hope not. I don't think I could survive him contradicting my story."

"What story is that?"

"Why, the Prime Minister, in a valiant attempt to defuse a case of nuclear terrorism, had his life taken by the vicious terrorist who was then killed by the troops Putin had wisely brought with him. Isn't that correct, Lieutenant Sankovsky?"

Putin's aide stepped up. "Exactly as you say, Colonel. Private Andrei Tomachek dispatched the murderer of our heroic Minister."

"Vil!" called Mike. "Give Chechnik your gun." Wordlessly, Vil complied. "Now the ballistics will match."

"One more thing. I need the weapon that killed Putin - I must plant it with Gereshk's body." Chechnik turned to someone behind Mike, someone everyone had ignored heretofore.

He wasn't really surprised at the shooter. At first, he'd thought it was Adams' work; he always carried at least two backups and was a steady man in the clutch. But no, he was just smiling and muttering. Not a militia man; he knew the sounds of all their weapons. Maybe one of the Intel girls? Anisa was more than capable of handling herself. No, not her either, he could hear her talking quietly with Grez. That just left...

Katrina. Her light footsteps were unmistakable.

Giving up a gun in an 'iffy' situation? To a man she knew - knew! - that Mike held in contempt? He braced himself for the next shot.

It didn't come.

Instead, to Mike's utter surprise, Katrina just walked forward, wiping the handle and trigger of the Makarov. She handed it to the Colonel.

"Pity. I'd so wanted a souvenir."

===============================

They had to leave the nuke behind as well. "We can't very well have Putin the martyred hero with no proof, can we?" explained Chechnik. Mike couldn't disagree. He wondered how Chechnik had pulled it off. It distracted him from the pain as the impact wound on his shoulder was tended.

"And what happens to you? There's going to be consequences, you know," Mike inquired.

"Undoubtedly. Between Sankovsky and I, we should be able to hold any summary judgment at bay long enough. As it turns out, these are my hand-picked men, not the late, lamented Prime Minister's. A little something I've been keeping quiet since your sniper missed -"

"He didn't miss. He hit the ordered target."

"No matter. Since his encounter with the sniper, shall we say? In any case, now is as good a time as any, I suppose."

"For what?"

"For me to take up my retirement. After all, I've just endured the terrible trauma of seeing my Prime Minister murdered; I've devoted my life to the service of the state; and it will conveniently clear up any loose ends. And these men have endured years of virtual slavery in the Army, with very little compensation. I think someone ought to address that situation."

"What are you going to do?"

"I had thought of going to America, but so many of my fellows have done so that it's lost the appeal. So, I rather fancy Thailand. Bangkok. I've heard that there are opportunities for men who have information and the guts to use it. Some time on the beach will do the men a world of good. Put any second thoughts to rest. Then, a mild heart attack will prevent my return home, even if they should try to recall me to duty. After all, this job is a killer." He nudged Putin's body with his boot.

"After Pankisi, I never thought I'd say this, but - Thank you, Erkin." Mike held out his hand.

Chechnik took it. "And after Pankisi, I never thought I'd hear it. You're welcome, Michael."

"After things settle down, if you're ever in Georgia, drop by."

"What about the 'other' list?"

"I'll make sure you're off it," Mike said with a smile. "But call first. Just in case."

Adams wasn't quite as happy.

"That nuke is worth over a quarter of a billion dollars, Mike! You can't let them walk away with it!"

"Yes, I can. First, Chechnik is right: he needs the bomb to prove his story."

"What about the pony bomb you have buried with the DVDs?"

"Good thought. One problem. It ain't here. If I'd had it with us, that would work. I don't, so it won't."

"Send Hardesty back. He can be back here in three hours."

"And how long do you expect Chechnik to keep the fact that the Prime Minister of Russia - Prime Minister, Ass-Boy! - is dead under wraps?"

"We do have control of the local network, remember? Nothing's getting in or out of here until we say it does."

"Second, our job was to recover the nukes - we did that. Sure, it's not with the others, but at least it's back in the proper hands."

"So they can lose it again?"

"Don't think that'll happen. A little birdie said that security is going to be supplemented on any US-bound convoys."

"Believe it when I see it."

"And third - did you forget about the Emir's little stash?"

A dumb look came over Adams' face. "Shit. You know what? I did." A grin gradually spread. "I can see how that might change things a bit."

"You think maybe?"

"What stash is this?" Kat asked.

Mike whirled around. "Okay, who's been teaching you sneak?"

She pointed. "The Chief. He said he's not as good as you, but that I'm a natural. Hiro's given me some pointers too. I don't have to think about it anymore, it just happens."

He faced Adams. "You didn't. Tell me you didn't." He rested his face in his palms, just for a moment. Bad enough with the Mice sneaking around; what was going to happen if a Kat went hunting them?

"I did - she is! Damn, your kids are going to be tough to keep track of! Besides, serves you right."

"Whatever. You just earned yourself diaper duty, Uncle Ass-boy." He raised his voice. "Vil!"

"Kildar?"

"Get the bomb out of the truck and let's get home. Beer and steaks when we get home."

"Now that sounds like a hell of a plan," agreed Adams.

CHAPTER 52

The Caravanserai

April 19 to 23

The after-action report was gonna be a bitch.

That was clear enough after doing the very brief hot wash, immediately after their return to the serai. With combat sites scattered across fifteen hundred miles, only two of which were actively under their control, the simple logistics made doing it 'right' nearly impossible. Zero chance to comb over them for missed data, or to properly sanitize the battle scenes. Especially not Moscow. No way in hell was he going to dare Murphy there, not until the uproar had settled from Putin's death.

As far as he was concerned, the mission was done. Over. The nukes were safely returned to better hands than before. The money was in the works. The men had gotten their steaks and beer and one hellacious 'welcome home!' party. Everyone was happy. Almost. Upper still wanted more details, of course, and Katrina was insisting, loudly, to Adams that they would do it properly!

Just as loudly, Adams was attempting to explain exactly what happened to all after-action reports. How sooner or later they all ended up in the wrong hands, with a person who had no clue about the details of the situation. They wouldn't know the background, or the pressures faced at that moment of decision. And sure as God made little green apples, they'd end up making every operator look incompetent, a criminal, or both. Then they'd use the report to push their own agenda, or maybe a bit of petty revenge.

He wasn't using nice language, either. He was shooting from the hip and Katrina was alternately blushing, nodding, and repeating what Adams was saying even more emphatically. All along, she was cradling her M4, which she hadn't set down for more than five minutes since boarding the Backfire for the flight home.

Mike listened to Guerrin promise that, as soon as he had his finished, he'd give a copy to Nielson for review. Chechnya? Not a prayer. Pavel wasn't up to the task yet, and Adams flat-out refused. On this, Katrina agreed.

"Screw them. The job is done. Pay us and leave us alone for a long, long time. I want to get married, and I want to get laid, and I don't much care about the order. And if anyone tries to bother us before the honeymoon is over, I will personally shoot them in the nuts." She caressed her rifle.

That left Moscow, and Cottontail.

"No way. What happened in Moscow, stays in Moscow." Mike was adamant. There was no way he could prevent stories from being told - already, Vil's marksmanship was becoming common knowledge, and Katrina was practically preening from all the attention she was getting - and that was bad enough.

He did not need the notoriety that would arise if her role in Putin's death was generally known. Or guess how many death squads would be dispatched, if they didn't just drop a missile on them instead. Less personal but cheaper in the long run than trying to penetrate through the Keldara. Even if it wouldn't bring the wrath of the ultra-nationalist Russians down upon them, he didn't know if the valley could stand Kat's ego blowing up. "They came after me?" he could imagine her saying. "Oh! I'm famous!" That chilled him almost more than her need for retribution.

At least there was one positive out of this. Putin's death had solidified the support for President Medvedev, stabilizing it immensely. The fact that Putin had died as the hero/cowboy he had always pretended to be resonated with the Russian people. And the stories from the witnesses all supported that version of the facts. It was their story, and they were sticking to it.

As for Cottontail - she was still at the Republican Clinical Hospital, waiting for J to recover. He had begun to recover some movement in his extremities, but still required assistance to breathe. His doctors were confident that he'd make a full recovery in time. The anti-toxins had arrived, and were helping him progress, but it was still a lengthy process.

Tamara was one of the few people Katya allowed in the room, and she'd taken a picture of the agent, sleeping. She was head down on J's leg, one hand clutching a pistol, the other a purple teddy wearing an orange-and-black kilt. It was terribly cute, and frightfully scary, and she couldn't resist the impulse to snap the photo. Luckily, Katya was fully zonked from exhaustion, helped by valium in her apple juice.

Mike wasn't sure J would return to the Valley, though, which would be unfortunate. He'd talked with Katya, upon returning from Moscow, and she'd mentioned J's intent to end Katya's apprenticeship. What that meant for J's future as the resident HumInt specialist remained to be seen. It made Vanner nervous, though whether at the thought of losing J or having Cottontail as his primary agent Mike wasn't sure.

Putin's death had made all the headlines.

"Prime Minister Stops Nuclear Terror" - CNN

"Evil Empire Has Soft Side, Saves Bakery" - Fox News

"Elvis And Russian Save Moscow!" - Midnight Sun

Okay, some were more accurate than others. The best part was that none mentioned Georgia, or the Keldara, or the Kildar, or a mysterious Backfire flying in and out of Moscow.

Chechnik had taken charge of the situation long enough for the 'official' story to be cemented in the public's eye. His men spent two days getting very, very drunk and vigorously laid, a minor expense Mike was more than happy to absorb. Arensky had provided them with another concoction which he swore would blur all memories of the past week and supplied it to Chechnik before the bacchanalia ended. This way even the most rigorous questioning wouldn't be able to shake their stories from the party line.

Mike had put Chechnik in touch with Sheik Otryad as a final favor to the man before he disappeared himself. Chechnik could use a patron abroad, especially with the sudden demise of Putin, and Otryad could use a man who, all bitching aside, really knew the intelligence business. Besides, the sheik owed him a favor after borrowing Shota, the Mules, the Four Blind Mice, Lasko, and tapping Mike's former trainers to reel in McKenzie as well. And Chechnik could use a pair of pilots with no conscience and knowledge of the unofficial southeast Asia flight routes. It was a temporary arrangement, of course, but seemed perfect. God save anyone who got in their way.

Since the news had broken and they'd recovered the last nuke, the phones had been ringing off the hook, as well as all the secure cyber channels. His responses had been remarkably similar to all.

"NO!"

"Fuck you. No."

"Ask OSOL."

"Ask JSOC."

"Ask the Big Man, and he'll tell you what I told you. Fuck off. You don't have need-to-know."

Now, though, he had to deal with Major Hughes, and his boss, to whom he at least owed the favor of being polite.

"Jack, if Pierson wants an after-action report, you can give him one."

"But, Mike, I wasn't there! Every time something interesting happened, you sent me somewhere else."

"Not all of it. What about taking down the Emir? You were there for that, weren't you?"

"So that's what, one out of five?" He held up a hand and started ticking off fingers.

"First bomb, Groznyy. We were where?"

"St. Louis," mumbled Mike.

"All the information I have is second- or third-hand. That makes my boss so happy! Second? Kek-Usn - and, by the way? I didn't enjoy flying in a fucking Hind on top of three hundred kilos of Semtex, fuck you very much! - Kek-Usn, and the Emir, right?"

"Right." Mike caught Adams rolling his eyes, and Katrina hiding a smirk. He turned to face Jack more fully and doubly flipped both off behind his back.

"That, I can do my job properly. But then you send me back to Elista with a shitload of bombs that have lead aprons rigger-taped to them -"

"You volunteered, Jack," interrupted Mike. More snickering. He wanted to turn to say something really rude, but Jack was still in full bitching mode and had caught his breath.

"Yeah, whatever. The point is, I spent the next eight hours welding lead plates onto live bombs."

"And your point is?"

Hughes didn't answer, just continued. "I finally haul my ass back here and find out that I'd just missed a major battle between Rangers and Chechens! Mortars, machine guns, snipers, bunkers, you name it, it was there! And where was I?"

"Screwing my harem manager? I'm sure Pierson would love details of that type of close quarters action. What's that story going to be - diplomacy? Tying down loose ends? Or language lessons in pillow talk?"

"That's totally not the point!"

"That's not what she said." Nobody could hide their giggles any longer. Jack blushed a little but being a good Marine he pushed on. Forward momentum for good or ill.

"I had intended simply to lie down for an hour. Next thing I know, my hands are tied to the bed and she's blowing me! What do you think I was gonna do?" Hughes said desperately.

"Cum again? I didn't hear that last part," Adams added in laughing.

"Need better situational awareness there, Jack. And Chief? Unless you have something constructive to say, shut it."

Returning to the subject, Hughes said, "Fourth. The action in the woods."

"That was personal between Cottontail, J, and Schwenke. You're welcome to interview any or all of 'em. I wouldn't recommend going to see J, though. Only doctors and nurses Katya's personally cleared are getting into that room."

"Great, I have permission to interview a man on a respirator, a bitch I wouldn't dare to piss off, and a lunatic whose body has disappeared."

"You have Oleg's report," Mike added helpfully. "And you could give the President Kurt's nuts. I'm sure the crows haven't touched them yet. And if you make a little coin purse out of his sack, Katya might just be impressed enough to talk to you."

"Fifth and finally, Moscow. But you send me to babysit a hundred-fifty kiloton bomb in a Hind - which is almost as much fun as Semtex, you know? - to a tiny, stinking port on the Black Sea. There I get the third degree from some CIA degenerates who hadn't been, let's see if I remember this right: 'briefed on the non-itineraried presence of an officered member of the United States Armed Forces in connection with transportation of nuclear deterrent products en route to the US for dismantlification and recycling pursuant to -' some Executive Order I've never heard of."

Mike winced. "Pure bureaucratese is hard to come by these days, especially around here. I am truly sorry you had to endure that alone. I should have sent the Chief with you. He knows how to put a stop to that."

"Damn straight. Only takes one round through the knee to set the rules of polite conversation and make them get to the point. Just be sure you have a grenade in your other hand, just in case they don't understand your accent." He was grinning like a shark. Mike knew the others weren't sure if Adams was telling the truth or just spewing bull. That was part of Ass-Boy's magic with the troops.

"It was three hours before they were convinced I was who I said I was! It didn't help that your lunatic pilot and her equally crazed crew chief were sitting back and laughing the entire time! But the Company jerks couldn't touch them because, somehow, they were carrying diplomatic passports."

"Just a little precaution," Mike said. "That, plus they were probably loaded for bear. Bet she landed so her spinal cannon covered their little camp."

"Yeah, well, they made me pay for it. By the time we get back, I'm so stressed and wiped out that I crash again. Just sleep, this time."

"I know. Stasia was complaining that you didn't have the, ah, stamina she's used to."

"After I wake up and flee the room, I find that you and your merry band of cutthroats have somehow gotten hold of a Backfire bomber and flown to Moscow! I mean, what the fuck? Didn't you think of waking me?"

"Stop. One second." Mike held up his hand. "Honestly, Jack? You really want to know?"

"Yeah!"

"Yes, I did. But Stasia promised mayhem if I didn't let you get a full night's sleep, and over the next day and into the morning, when it was all going down, well, it was just so fucking chaotic, I just plain forgot." Mike shrugged. Katrina fell off her perch and onto Adams, reclining in his comfy chair, from laughing. Mike gave her a raised eyebrow. She nodded and covered her mouth, but her whole body was still shaking.

Adams decided that he might want to make himself scarce. "You know, I haven't... talked to Bambi in a while. A long while. I think I ought to do that soon. Real soon. Right now, in fact." He stood up, dumped Kat onto the floor, and strode out of the room. "Don't call me; I'll call you. Later. Much later," he called over his shoulder.

"In any case, I wake up and you're gone. Kseniya let me into the Cave, so I was able to follow your progress and read your reports as they came in, but it's not the same as being there. Those girls edit the data on the fly. They must have had it buffered by at least ten seconds, maybe more. I can't read Georgian, but my Russian's really good, and those screens weren't matching at all."

"You're absolutely right, Jack, it's not the same. It's a lot safer. And you're right, they probably were. It's as much about sheltering them as anything. If one of their husbands is deployed and gets injured, or worse, the data gets dumped into a buffer for Grez until she has a chance to counsel them in private, get relief and a Mother."

"The problem with that is there are all sorts of questions that nobody wants to give me a straight answer to."

"They're pros. Vanner taught them. Mr. No-Such-Agency himself. But I'll help you out, if I can. To a point." Mike noticed that Vanner and Grez had taken advantage of Adams' departure to slip from the room themselves. That was fine. He just hoped they'd air out the Cave before heading to quarters; it stank like a mix of gym socks, stress, burnt coffee and overheated electronics.

"Like who shot Gereshk, where is the bomb, and who shot Putin?"

"That's a bit more than a little. I can give you the official version. I think that some Private shot Gereshk, right after Gereshk shot Putin who was being a dumbass cowboy and crashed our op unannounced -"

"Bullshit, Mike! I can get that from CNN and Vremya! Dammit, if I'm going to do my job, I need the truth!"

Mike pondered this for a moment before replying. "If I say it doesn't go in your report, do I have your word that it doesn't go in?"

"Absolutely! On my honor as an officer in the Corps!"

"I don't care about your honor. If you lie to me, if you're lucky, you end up in an unmarked grave."

"Not that I'm gonna lie - but what if I'm unlucky?"

"I'll tell Stasia she can't play with you anymore and give you to the Mice."

"The Mice?"

"Be afraid. Be very afraid," added Kat.

"Never mind that. I want the truth."

"Fine. In no particular order? Chechnik took charge of the bomb and contacted our Ambassador to help arrange for secure transport to Novorossijisk. Vil, one of my Team leaders, shot Gereshk after he took a shot at me."

"Hit you too! Mike's getting slo-ow!" Katrina's voice sing-songed out from under the table.

"Took it in the armor, mostly. Anyway. Katrina did for Putin with a Makarov she'd taken off Gereshk's body, after he told us he was going to kill us all and pin the entire thing on me and the Keldara. Then he'd take the credit for saving Moscow, even though they're the ones who'd lost the bombs in the first place."

"The fuck you say! Chechnik took the bomb?" He didn't even blink at the part about Putin and Katrina.

"That's it? That's all you have to say?"

"Well, I know that the men you picked to lead your Teams can't be any kind of slouch, so Vil's shooting doesn't surprise me. And I spent a week with you and Kat; need I say more? I also know she can shoot; I heard the Chief telling stories about her giving some guy's balls a close shave with her gun during a spring festival."

"What are you going to tell Pierson?"

"I think we can tell him that Vil took down Gereshk and that Chechnik took care of the nuke."

"And what about Katrina?" She peeked over the table edge at the sound of her name.

"I wasn't there; nobody actually saw it, right?"

"Nobody except Katrina. Not even the Keldara behind her or next to her. She always does have to have the last word."

"Do not! And you're going to pay for that!"

"Anytime, sweetie. Still, between the glare of the lights and her hip shooting, no one could really say anything with certainty. It helps that Chechnik had his own hand-picked crew there, who were primed for a long, ah, 'vacation' in warmer climes."

"Who can I ask that would contradict Chechnik's official view? Dead men don't talk much, and I never liked that asshole anyway." Katrina beamed at Jack for that before settling into Adams' vacated chair.

"Thanks, Jack. That'll make things smoother."

"No problem. I figure I owed you at least that."

"At least. So, what's next?"

"Don't know. How long until the wedding?"

"Twelve days, maybe? The Festival isn't a fixed date; it's sometime between the first and third of May. Besides, with all the traveling, I'm not entirely sure what planet I'm on any longer." He pointedly stretched. "I figure in the next couple hours I'll either rack out or get acquainted with the floor. The little minx isn't doing much better, are you?" Silence. "Katrina?" Jack snorted.

Mike turned, following his eyes. Katrina had curled up in the chair like a kitten, curled around her M-4 protectively and snoring. Snoring? Oh, he so needed a camera now.

"Know what you mean. All the chopper rides, I feel like I've spent a week in a mixing bowl. A couple weeks, more or less?" Jack spoke in a much quieter voice.

"About that."

"Well, I have plenty of leave coming. Unless the Colonel orders me back, I think I might just drop him an email and let him know I'm taking it."

"Why bother? Just don't say anything. You're on TDY to me anyhow; who's to say when I plan to send you back?" Mike smiled conspiratorially and dropped his voice. "I need you to do something, a few things, actually. Let's take a walk."

===============================

There were pluses to being a neo-feudal lord: nice house, freedom to do pretty much as he pleased, Keldara women to look at, a harem at his beck and call, a backhoe to dispose of any stubborn problems...

And there were minuses: paperwork, security, paperwork, training, paperwork... And, occasionally, he had to check in with his subordinates. Otherwise, who knew what they'd charge into. Or simply charge.

Parts of the valley were supposed to be self-supporting or even money-makers. Long-term, according to Meller, the valleys had the potential to become a major industrial and tech center, bringing major income to everyone who invested either labor or money in building it up. But for now, he had to look after the few that were already completed.

The dam had been a quick in and out. Look at the dials, check cleanliness, listen to the hum of the generators and the rush of the spring waters. They managed to export electricity this time of year due to the meltwaters. It allowed Meller to run the system full out as a sort of stress test. Mike would have rather read the memo than endure a twenty-minute drive and thirty minutes of technobabble, but at least he'd been spared the full-on PowerPoint presentation and video.

Now, on to something he was passionate about. Beer!

"Gurum! How's the brewery?" Mike stood to shake the brewery manager's hand, then sat again. Gurum settled into the seat across the desk.

"We have just finished expanding again. Now we are a three hundred hectoliter plant! Although we cannot, in all likelihood, expand beyond that."

"Why not?"

"Tiger berries. We're running out of suitable land for the berries, and Genadi doesn't feel that more acreage can be turned over for planting bushes. Something about a cash crop versus a sustenance crop?"

"I know what he means," explained Mike. "Two kinds of planting. One is what you need to survive - wheat, beans, peas, vegetables. Now, some part of that can be sold, and another part can be held over for the following year's seeds, but most of it is simply turned into food."

"And the other?"

"That's the tiger berries, or soy, or any other plant you grow with the intent to sell or use in another fashion. You have to have enough planted to make it sufficiently profitable, and you can expand it slightly if you're willing to buy seeds every year for your food crops rather than store your own, but there's a fine line. You can't eat money, after all, and in an area like this, so isolated it's virtually cut off from the outside, you can't simply run down to the market if you run out of milk."

"I see. But could we not use land that is not needed for food? The hillsides, perhaps, or some of the wooded areas?"

Mike shook his head. "Genadi has had most of the areas near the brewery already put to that use, but you run into other problems there. Unless you're going to terrace the entire hillside, it's almost criminally foolish to strip the natural vegetation off slopes like we have around here."

"Too little ground cover and there's nothing to hold the dirt in place when it rains; you will get mudslides. And the same problem with cutting the trees. Besides providing cover for the game you hunt, they're natural snowblocks. We have enough problems with avalanches without stripping the mountain flanks of trees, don't you think?"

"But without more tiger berries, we have nearly reached our production limit."

Mike shrugged. "It would be nice to get more income through the brewery, but it's not exactly essential." A thought struck him. "Do the tiger berry bushes have to be in the Valley itself?"

"No, Kildar. They grow elsewhere, but not in the same quantities. And Mother Lenka says that their flavor is different. She makes a face whenever the subject is brought up."

"Hmm. I wonder. Right, here's what I think you should do. Go see Dr. Arensky."

"The Russian?" Arensky's eccentricities were known throughout the Valley.

"I know he can be a bit odd, but he's brilliant. He's also the only scientist we have locally."

Resignedly, Gurum said, "Yes, Kildar. And what do I ask him?"

"Bring him to other places the berries grow and have him take samples of the plants and the soil, then compare them to a bush and soil from the valley."

"Dirt is dirt, Kildar," said Gurum, confused.

"Trust me on this, it isn't. Just get Arensky to test them both. If it comes out the way I hope, you may be able to plant elsewhere. Also, ask Mother Lenka for a new recipe, for a dark beer. It doesn't have to use the tiger berries, just be a good Keldara beer, strictly for export." He finished with a grin. "There's a demand for dark beer, and I think we should take advantage of that too. If it fails, we'll just buy or build a still and make it into vodka. Drop a few berries into each bottle, call it Freedom Spirits, and we'll be able to charge an arm and a leg for it. Try to remember all that, but I'll check in a few days."

"Thank you, Kildar." Gurum rose and left.

Daria walked in.

"Okay, Daria, before you tell me who's next, make a note. Get Gurum a PDA and some classes in its use. It'll help him do his job better. Who's next?"

"He's lost every PDA we've given him, Kildar, we think on purpose. Or perhaps the boys are still playing jokes on him. We can issue him another and track it, hope it remains in the area. Other than that - that was it for today, Kildar. But -" She suddenly seemed hesitant. "May I speak with you?"

"Of course you can." Mike had a sinking feeling he knew what she was going to say. He hadn't forgotten her desire to leave; he simply wasn't looking forward to it.

"I... you remember our talk?" she began.

This was it. He steeled himself and gave her a genuine smile to calm her down.

"I do, Daria. You made yourself very clear. I don't want you to go, but I did ask you to stay only until after the mission. The mission's done, so anytime you're ready -"

"Oh, no, Kildar!"

"No?"

"I've changed my mind. If that's all right," she added hastily.

"All right? Of course it's all right! It's fantastic!" He smiled broadly. "So what brought this on?"

"A few things. I realized that, really, I am very safe here. Protected. Even though you have brought some troubles to the Valley, you have also done all you can to push them away. I don't know if I can find that out there. The friendships. The safety. The...benefits," she finished with a blush.

"You can; it's just a question of looking."

"And until I find it? What then? No, Kildar. I learned long ago not to trade the gifts of today for the promises of tomorrow, for tomorrow might never come. I have seen far too many young men for whom tomorrow never came, whose parents, wives, siblings would know only sorrow and not the joy of having him around."

"True enough," agreed Mike. "What else changed your mind?"

"JP," she said in a tiny, little girl's voice.

"Captain Guerrin?" Mike couldn't conceal his surprise.

"Yes, Captain Guerrin," she said now in a husky whisper, eyes dilated and nostrils flared as she said his name.

"How did you find time to get to know him? And so fast!"

"I've been working with him the whole time he's been here, Kildar. Someone had to run interference for him, help him adjust and stay in contact with his commanders in America. Naturally, he came to me, since I fill that role for you, and he figured that I'd know how to help him."

"But - he's still active duty!"

"Not for long," she answered. "When he came here, he had less than two months. Now it's little more than one, and he says he can probably get something called 'termination leave' since he's hardly used any of his personal time."

"Yeah, the Army will do that if you want to get discharged in place. Doesn't he have a family or something back home?"

"No," Daria answered. "Nothing like that. Before you ask, he hopes that you might have a place for him. He said that you could use another full-time trainer, either for the Tigers or the Rams, and that you'd just have to pay him in beer."

"I don't know if I can afford him, then," joked the Kildar. "Well, whatever reasons, you staying is good news. Guess that means you'll be moving out at some point?"

"Perhaps," answered Daria. "Though my room is much more comfortable than the barracks he's used to."

"Has he seen them?"

"You mean, has he slept with me? No, not yet. He wanted to wait until I had a chance to talk to you."

"No wonder you've been so anxious," he replied.

That finally drew a blush.

"Fine, fine. My blessings or whatever on you both. I'll expect you to be professional when he's around, though. Mission faces and all that."

"Yes, Kildar." She twinkled. "Just like you are with Katrina."

Dammit.
CHAPTER 53

The Caravanserai

Late April

"Ass-boy!"

"What now, Chief?" Mike rubbed his arms and chest with a towel. The workout he'd just finished was long overdue and a welcome break from the post-mission stresses. He would have preferred another hour on the Nautilus, but the joints were letting him know it was time to stop. The abuse from previous missions was making itself felt; he was sure he'd have to seek out Kurosawa and his needles. Thus, his answer to Adams was perhaps a little gruffer than he'd intended.

"The first stones are back from the cutter," he answered, dropping a bag on the desk. Mike sighed down into the expensive executive chair, appreciating the extra support it provided. Definitely getting old.

"Stones? Oh, yeah, right. Good. Thanks."

"That's it? 'Good. Thanks'? You know how hard it was to find a reputable gem cutter in this country? And to keep him from stealing them? I had to install cameras in his shop beforehand and prove that they were being watched! Then I had to convince him that the chips and dust weren't a bonus for him to keep - you know how much even that stuff's worth?? On top of which, I've had to babysit his sorry ass the entire time, and you know how much I hate babysitting!"

"I'm sure you got some of the Keldara to watch him, while you sat back and had a beer or two."

"That's not the point! The point is, I did you a favor and now it's no big deal?"

"Ah. You want gratitude. Why didn't you say so?" Looking up from his terminal, Mike put on a cheesy fake smile. "Thank you ever so much for putting yourself out on my behalf! I won't ever forget this!"

"Ah, fuck it. You just better watch out. Your bachelor party's coming up really soon."

That was a threat.

===============================

"You and Daria, eh?" He raised a single eyebrow. He'd seen Stasia do it to her charges, and it seemed to imply so much more than was said. It made the target think whatever they feared most and gave the impression you knew more than you really did.

JP didn't blink. He'd been before enough boards of review to have the routine down pat. Admit to nothing until necessary, and only the minimum then. "Yep. Me and Daria."

"And here you were complaining about Sivula getting married."

"That's different. I'm on short time, no wife or family back home, and I figure if I get out here and manage to get a position with you, the odds are pretty good that Uncle Sam won't be able to call me back into service."

"How many years have you put in, JP?"

"Thirteen."

"If you don't mind me asking - why are you still a captain?" Mike steepled his fingers and leaned back as if considering the entire man, past, present, and future. Which, in a sense, he was.

"I was a mustang. Enlisted for four years, thinking it would be a good way to save up some money for college. Made sergeant, but didn't really love it, y'know? I was planning to get out, and my CO knew it, so he made me an offer. Hard to refuse the old man. He had a way with words, and I swear, he could predict the future. Kinda miss the old bastard, now.""

"OCS?"

"Yeah. Came out a shiny new second john, didn't know my ass from my elbow, but I'd signed for another six years. Got all gung-ho after 9/11 and went to Ranger school, qualified, and then got assigned to the 75th. Worked my way up to commanding my company in between deployments and getting my hitch 'extended' three times - 'needs of the service', you know that bullshit. So here I am."

"So why get out? Why not go for field grade? I can make a few calls, pull a couple strings...?" He let the offer hang in the air.

"Mike, after so many years in the Big and Little Sandbox, I don't need to prove my patriotism to anyone. I love my country and want to serve, but I'm over thirty now - I still want some kind of life. Kids, too, ones that know their daddy and have a single place to live."

"You think that you'll get more of one here?"

"I know that you do weird shit out here that's so black nobody, and I mean nobody, can talk about it. I also know that you don't take orders from anyone, just requests that you think will help the country. That's where I want to be. Then you have the beer - all I have to say is, Oh My God. And, of course, Daria. She doesn't want to leave here, she made that abundantly clear, so if I want her in my life, I have to share her place. Besides, I hear the pay ain't bad, either, given the bonuses you gave my men - and thank you for that. Bunch of 'em really needed that, even if they didn't say anything about it."

"Even if it means you're stuck in a training slot for the nonce?"

"What do you think Rangers do all day we're not deployed? Carve 'snake-eater' tattoos into our arms? And does that mean you have a job for me?"

"Possibly." Mike explained about the Mountain Rams.

"They're a ton of raw material, and, honestly, I don't think they're quite up to the standards of the Tigers of the Mountains. Plus, they're locals, not Keldara, and those two have never mixed well. But, by God, they're willing, and doing their best."

"What are you looking at, then?"

"There's a lot more of them, and we've only got the first batch up to snuff," Mike said. "Word's gotten out, though, and they're tired of being sheep. I figure, if we can get them up to the standards of the Corps, there's enough there to take the biggest burden off the Tigers. Plus, having a potent military force which is politically neutral but strongly in support of the legitimate government will go a long way towards stabilizing the country and dragging it up towards the first world."

"You want the Rams to be the Army to the Tigers' Rangers?"

"Something like that, or at least National Guard."

"I can do that. Tough to turn sheep into soldiers, but I hear you have a good cadre going?"

"You won't be alone. I have a Scottish sergeant and a few Gurkhas working with them, but I want you to provide a general direction, an officer they can look up to and call their own. Nielson's done his best, but he's got a bunch on his plate already. And you could bring Daria in. She'd make a hell of an S-2 or -4."

"Can do. Where will I slot into your command structure?"

"You'll report to Colonel Nielson, then to me. You're essentially an independent command; you're going to have enough men."

"Maybe I should have asked earlier, but just how many men am I looking at?"

"Right now, we're projecting a force of 750."

"Holy crap! That's more like a battalion!"

"Yep. Which is why, for my purposes, you're going to get your silver oak leaf. There's a chicken in your future, too, but only after Neilson takes his medicine and accepts a star. Totally unofficial outside the Valley, but it'll give you some pull with the troops. Think that'll suffice?"

"Captain to Light Colonel in one jump? That'll do nicely."

"Once your Rams shake down, we'll have to nominate some officer candidates and train 'em up, but that's a problem for later."

"You have an OCS?"

"No, that's why it's a problem for later."

The planning meeting went on long into the night.

===============================

"What do you think?"

"I think you're insane, but that's nothing new," said Kacey.

"Definitely. We're helicopter pilots, not fixed-wing, and sure as hell not something like a Backfire!" added Tammy. "No matter how sexy it is!"

Mike had suggested that his two pilots get some time in the Backfire before John and Chris - he couldn't call them Hardesty and Watson, it sounded too much like a bad law firm that advertised late nights for personal injury claims - returned to their regular jobs. Hardesty wasn't an issue; as long as Chatham didn't need him back, he was perfectly willing, okay, overjoyed, to earn twice his usual pay playing with a supersonic bomber. That briefly brought his mind to the stack of claims for broken windows from a nearby village. Again. Hardesty was having way too much fun.

Watson was a different story.

He'd been "shanghaied" - his words - by OSOL, and he was dammed if he was going to spend, quote, any more time in a godforsaken third-world shithole of a country, unquote, than he had to. He was willing to finish familiarizing Hardesty - but with John's extensive background, that wouldn't take long. And he flat-out refused to consider staying on longer, despite promises of bonuses and the comforts available in the Valley.

Mike had considered the benefits of having Pierson 'advise' Watson that his time in Georgia was going to be extended. In the end, though, he figured that the misery the arrogant pilot would produce far outweighed any possible gains, and so had let Watson know that he'd be able to depart as soon as Hardesty reported himself ready to pilot the Backfire solo.

That wasn't going to be more than another couple days. Unless they buzzed another town at full burners. He should never have let them borrow his copy of Top Gun. Dammit, it was a bomber-turned-transport, not a fucking fighter!

However, that was going to leave Mike with a big, expensive aircraft and zero trained pilots. Umarov had volunteered his pilots' services, but, while they were competent enough in their SU-25 Frogfoots, he didn't quite trust them with his supersonic bomber on a regular basis. Hence his suggestion to Kacey and Tammy, that they learn how to fly the beast. He thought they'd be excited.

Boy was he wrong.

"It's a totally different kind of flying."

"Almost contradictory, in fact."

"There's different procedures and protocols to follow."

"Different reactions to train."

"And if we become proficient at flying Grez -"

" - We might lose our tough with the Hinds."

"Dragon would get lonely if I didn't let him feed occasionally!"

"And, if you're going to take me out of Valkyrie, then, sir, with respect, Fuck No!"

So it had gone, a verbal tennis match, with Mike the only spectator. Now the Marine was coming out of his pilots, and he knew it was time to put a stop to it. Mike's neck was weary from the constant back-and-forth nature of their argument, so he rested his head on his hand for a moment.

"What you're saying is neither of you could fly it without giving up the choppers."

They shared a glance, then Kacey's pilot's ego took over.

"We could fly her. Probably not well, certainly not up to her abilities. But we each have some hours in fixed-wing aircraft. Much smaller, but the principles the same. We can get by, for short periods."

"We just don't want to transition out of our Hinds," admitted Tammy.

"Why us?" asked Kacey.

"You're the only pilots I have," answered Mike, somewhat amused by the question.

"You mean, we're the only rotary-wing pilots you have," agreed Tammy. "Fixed-wing aircraft are much easier to learn how to fly than helicopters, though."

"I'll bet you could find a half-dozen volunteers among the Keldara without even trying!" offered the other Bobbsey twin, and the tennis match was back on.

"Let's see, there's Serena Mahona, she always wants to deadhead on training flights -"

"And Akilina Kulcyanov -"

"Who's that little blonde?"

"The one that D'Allaird was sniffing around?"

"Yeah, until she gave him a black eye." Tammy smirked. "He's not going to equate 'small and blonde' with 'stupid' anymore, no matter how perky her tits are!"

"Lizaveta Shaynav. She's got the reactions, for sure. And then there's also -"

"Whoa! We're talking a multiple-million-dollar, supersonic converted and upgraded bomber here, not a farm tractor!" interrupted Mike.

"Your point?"

"My point? Do you really think these girls are able to handle piloting a fucking Tu-22M?"

"Did you think that any of these 'girls' would be able to run an Intel shop like Grez?"

"Or shoot like Katrina?"

"Or lay mortars like Jessia?"

"Or rewrite code like Creata?"

"Okay, okay, I give! What about men? Gonna have some bruised egos if you only select the girls for training."

"What about them?" asked Tammy. "It's been proven, over and over, that women have better reaction times and can make better pilots than men. Besides, all the young men are in the Tigers. Don't think many will give that up."

"Ask, anyways. Just say you're looking for volunteers. Then make a list and I'll give it to John, on one condition."

They looked at him warily before replying. "What's the condition?" asked Kacey.

"You two take some 'refresher' training. Once John returns to Chatham, unless they get a shitload of hours behind the stick, I want a more experienced, veteran hand available to fly with them."

"That makes sense," said Tammy. "But you ought to include Chief D'Allaird as well. He's got plenty of bootlegged hours."

"Done."

"And while we're on the subject -"

"Yes?" Now Mike was wary.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea for us to start training some of our crew chiefs how to fly the birds."

"You're not planning on leaving, are you?" Mike frowned.

"Hell no!" snapped Kacey. "The hours are good, the pay outstanding, and we get to blow shit up! How could life get any better than that?"

"Getting laid more often?" said Tammy. Kacey glared at her.

"So why?"

"Redundancy, for one," said Tammy. "You don't want to be down a chopper if either of us should come down with the flu, or break a leg, or -"

"I get the idea. Okay, good point, but not enough."

"That brings us to the second point," continued Tammy. "If we train up more pilots, especially from among our crew chiefs who at least have some familiarity with the birds, we'll effectively double our usefulness. Right now, at some point - and God knows we've pushed right to it! - we simply have to stop and get some crew rest. If we have a relief pilot, even one that we have to co- for, we'll be able to increase our endurance considerably. You can't afford to have us end up like the girls in the Cave did this last op."

"Now, that makes sense. I want you to start small at first, though. No more than one relief pilot from each of you. You know your chiefs; I'll go with your recommendations. Now, is there anything else?"

"No, Kildar," answered Kacey, and the two pilots beat a hasty retreat.

"Do you think he knows we've already started training?" asked Tammy when the heavy door had closed behind them.

"I sure as hell hope not! How many hours does Naida have now?"

"Fifty-three. Anechka?"

"Forty-two, but she really wants to play with the guns."

"I know; Naida is still griping about not being able to take out the Administrator's Humvee."

"Still? After all these months?"

"Yep. She says that target practice just isn't the same."

They'd made their way to their quarters. "What's on the agenda tonight?" asked Kacey.

"Nothing much," said Tammy. "Did you hear about Daria?"

"Yeah," grinned Kacey. "She snagged him right out from under you!"

"Not quite under me, but close enough," grimaced Tammy. "What about you?"

"The Chief asked me to drop by, help him plan the Kildar's bachelor party. Said to bring the Marine playbook on nasty tricks."

Tammy brightened at that. "Sounds interesting. Care if I come along?"

"Naah, I'm sure he won't mind. But I give you the signal, you get scarce."

"Why? You planning a bombing run on him? And who said I wouldn't want in?"

Kacey shrugged. "Not planning on it, and no, I won't share - that never works out!"

"And he's a SEAL - he likes 'em young, you think of that?"

Hell, I'm a Marine - adapt and overcome!"

===============================

"Do you know how difficult this was?"

Actually, what the Chief said came out more like, "D'yuh know ho' diff'cult thish wa'?" The bachelor party had begun, officially, only an hour ago, but it seemed that Adams had started his celebration quite a bit earlier. Truth be told, so had Mike, though he wasn't nearly as badly off.

"How difficult?" His joints were warmed by a recent session with Kurosawa, while his belly had been warmed by two fingers' of single malt that Bridgewater had claimed was over a hundred years old.

"Very fuckin' diff'cult. But yer worth it, Ash-Boy!"

Mike was impressed. Instead of holding the party in the caravanserai - a nightmare Mike had had more than once in the past week - the Chief had appropriated one of the emergency shelters in the valley. And, except for Stella and the Ready Team, it seemed like the entire Valley had made an appearance.

A huge bonfire had been lit out front, casting flames thirty feet into the evening sky. A separate fire pit was laid, and at least two steer had been butchered and were grilling over the coals, casting their fragrant aroma far and wide. Turnips and parsnips, harvested after resting underground all winter, had been transformed into a savory hash, Fresh-baked bread had appeared as well.

Then the beer was brought out.

Not the slop they made for export.

Not the slightly better product they sold in the village.

Not even Mother Griffina's brew, regarded as consistently the second-best among the Families.

No, this was all - all - Mother Lenka's winter brew. Ten full barrels of dark ale, which made Mike wonder just how long Katrina had been planning her little ambush, and if the old witch really could see the future. Her brew was liquid gold, carefully hoarded and always in scarce supply. And the dark ale was only made in times of great good fortune and prosperity. Then, it was held for drinking on rare occasions. The last, he'd heard, was the funeral of ten Keldara who'd died trying to rescue some of their own from slavers, and that had been over twenty years ago.

That had been the last time before his arrival that Keldara had gone to the Halls, the last time the tun had received warriors. That had been early in the winter, and the bodies had awaited internment until the ground thawed enough for the burial. More than enough time for her to prepare her ale. But, for her to provide ten barrels was simply unheard-of, impossible! Unless...

Overanalyzing again, he told himself firmly. No Gods talked to her, let her know the date...

Bowing to American traditions, Katrina was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there were very few women here at all, Mike realized with a start. Jessia, with Andrew. Daria, with JP, and those two were closer than a pair of horny teenagers. Cold water wouldn't do anything there except steam, and he doubted a crowbar would do any good either. Stasia, with Jack - he noted that pairing with a wrench. Well, he had always insisted that she was a free agent, and it seemed that she had reconciled herself to his impending wedding in her own manner.

Then he saw Elena and Catrina? That meant that their freelance job was finally over. Maybe he'd be able to trade for some info - he'd need a couple new playmates in the Dungeon if Stasia was really moving on to Jack. They'd be happier than a rabbit in a lettuce patch over that tidbit. The marriage to Katrina, well, they could handle that too. They knew about his dark side and would take turns when it got too heavy for him to keep inside any longer. They might even try to recruit Katrina, though she'd more likely hold the lash than take it.

"Hey! When did you get back? And where's the rest of the team?"

Bright smiles lit their faces as they bounced through the crowd towards him. They very little they weren't wearing wouldn't keep them warm, he could tell that.

"Mouse and God-boy are up at the serai. She said something about checking in on her feeds?"

"Shota and the Mules are showering; boy, do they need it! You know how rank it can get in a cargo plane for six hours?"

"They still played in the tournament but didn't take time to shower up. Smelled worse than they do after a summer op, you know?"

"Yeah, I do, actually. What tournament? And Lasko? McKenzie?"

"I think they've both turned in," answered Catrina, avoiding the first question and settling in on his right. Even through his pants Mike could feel that she didn't have anything under her skirt. He immediately stiffened, to his surprised, but then he remembered Kurosawa's promise. "Enough vigor for three young men!" Guess he wasn't kidding.

"Mac said he wanted to get back to training tomorrow, see what the Gurkhas got into in his absence," said Elena, on his left. She managed to wiggle into that side of his lap and, like her co-conspirator, was wearing nothing under her too-short skirt. His hand stroked her thigh absently. "And Lasko's just old."

"Not that old," giggled Catrina. "Not much older than the Kildar, and younger than the Colonel. Wasn't he surprised that time?"

"Oh yes!" giggled Elena. "That was fun, though he was pretty pissed about being late for his morning meeting."

"Is there a story there?" asked Mike.

"Kildar! What happens on mission -" began Elena.

" - stays on mission," finished Catrina. "But if you're very nice to us, we might just show you what we mean," she continued, tickling his ear with her finger. Elena, bolder than her sidekick with Mike's hand on her leg, licked his other earlobe.

"This is your bachelor party," purred Elena into the same ear. "Your last 'fling', yes? We saw enough of them in Lunari to know all about them, how it's a drunken debauch." She looked up at Catrina and winked. "It was a loooong, boring flight home, and we thought of plenty to things to keep us...amused." She wriggled her butt on his lap, putting pressure on him and getting even more of a rise. And she knew it, too.

Catrina took the glass from Mike's free hand and took a long draught of the beer. "Ahhh." she practically moaned. "Do you know how hard it is for a woman to find a drink in Dubai? Let alone anything like this?"

"Difficult?"

"You have no idea," she answered, draining the rest of the beer. "Get me another?" she asked winsomely. Elena pouted when he stood, but they shielded him for the moment it took to adjust himself, swatting away their too-helpful hands. Some things, a man has to do himself.

Somehow, Mike found himself fetching drinks and first steaks off the oxen back to the two women, who attacked the beef as if they hadn't eaten in days - which, he reflected, they might not have - yet retained a girlishness about them that was totally at odds with how quickly the two ribeyes disappeared. Elena impishly licked a trickle of juice from Catrina's lips and chin to tease their Kildar.

"Hungry?"

Elena only smiled impishly. He felt his pants tighten again. What the hell had Kurosawa laced his tea with?

"So," she said, sliding a hand under his shirt, "When does the fun begin?"

"Any time you want," he answered. "But there's a little matter of the other guests standing around."

A bottle of Elijah Craig - eighteen-year-old single-barrel - appeared at Elena's shrill whistle, with three water glasses, and they started doing shots, then doubles, then - well, they started to measure it by fingers. That bottle didn't last long, with both women matching him drink-for-drink. The body shots, between their naturally firm breasts, elicited cheers from the Keldara in attendance.

Neither did the second bottle. That bottle was different. Green, triangular glass. Glen something-or-other. Gold label, wax-sealed cork, and dusty as hell. How these two managed to get into Bridgewater's whiskey vault, he didn't know, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

At one point, Mike was sure he saw the Chief, in full camo, low-crawling across the ground. What the fuck was that SEAL doing? It wasn't a party for him unless he did something spectacularly stupid. When a certain almost-as-drunk Hind pilot reached down and grabbed his ear, Mike smiled. And when the same pilot dragged him off, begging for forgiveness, he had to laugh, remembering other, happier, simpler days.

Sometime the party moved gradually outside. Mike no longer had his chair-cum-throne by the double doors, where he could observe both inside and out. Rather, he was seated by the remains of the huge fire, near the roasting oxen, where the flames would neither singe his skin nor set the building alight.

The night was clear and surprisingly warm for the season, with only the slightest chill to encourage the girls to cuddle closer to him. They dispensed with the glasses and drank straight from the bottle, something that would have mortified Bridgewater. Fine. He wouldn't tell him.

He traded whiskey-filled kisses with his two lap vixens until a sudden drum roll burst from the darkness, causing him to stop his playful teasing of the girls, but the whiskey bottle stayed close.

As the rolling drums thrummed a steady rhythm, the spectators turned towards the darkness on the north side of the party, parting as if they'd been aware of the interruption and had practiced.

From either side, two teams - Yosif's and Vil's - emerged, dressed, not as the modern warriors they had become, nor the peasants they had been, but in far older, more traditionally Georgian dress: red chokhas, flowing, loosely-cut robe-like blouses bearing bandoliers across their chests and elaborate decorations at the sleeves. Around their waists, all carried a mix of long knives and the favorite weapon of the Keldara, the axe.

Hoods down over their faces, they formed two lines facing each other.

"What is this?" asked Mike.

"It is the Khanjluri dance," whispered Elena. "They will compete, in pairs with their knives and their axes, trying to copy exactly the other's moves. The first one to fail, withdraws, and is replaced by another from his side who attempts the same steps. It goes on until one side has used all of its dancers. Ooh, they're starting!" She bounced on his lap, and somehow her hand had pushed Mike to that side of his pants. She nestled it between her ass cheeks under her skirt.

Catrina pouted. She'd been playing with the outline of his cock for a few minutes and seemed to have other plans for it, which had suddenly been derailed. Setting the bottle between his knees, he pulled them closer, sliding his hands up their ribs, eliciting giggles and wiggles and the familiar goosebumps that told Mike that he was doing it right. Then he cupped a breast and began to idly tease their nipples as he focused on the dancers.

Yes, it looked like they were ready to begin.

The 'zzzzip' and 'snap' of his button went unnoticed, as the crowd had turned to watch dancers with growing excitement. Two hands met under his boxers and found what they sought, stroking him with at the same pace as he did their nipples.

One way or another, this promised to be a good show. And the bottle was perfectly sized to hid what the girls were grasping, he noticed, wondering if that was planned.

Edvin Kulcyanov came out for Yosif's team, while Karoly Makanee matched him from Vil. By unspoken agreement Edvin went first, with simple actions - tossing the knife from hand to hand, combined with a bit of dancing. Karoly mimicked it perfectly, then began his routine. Two blades spun in a blur in his hands, then launched into the air and down to be caught precisely as the pommels came even with his palms. Edvin nearly managed it but mistimed his throw with his left hand. Rather than catch it blade-first, he wisely let it drop.

The gudastviri and chonguri - the Georgian equivalents of bagpipes and guitar or mandolin - stopped playing when Edvin's knife landed. Only the doli, the drum, continued to hold the beat while Edvin retreated back to his side to some mild ribbing after he'd bent down to retrieve the blade. It seemed that his pants were a size too small, and he'd split them when he'd swooped down. A tiny cousin of his came up, violating protocol, and kicked him in the shins for ruining her seamstress work.

The hands working him tightened and twisted, focusing him on the immediate and forgetting his other train of thought.

"You're gonna pay for that, girls."

"Hush, Kildar. There's still more...dancing, to come. So, don't you, yet."

Vugar was next. The music resumed, and Karoly repeated his routine, which Vugar nailed. Then it was his turn.

Back and forth the two teams went, neither gaining a decisive advantage over the other despite the increasing complexity and danger of the knife- and axe-handling. Finally, it was down to Yosif and Vil, Mike sure that they'd earned these spots, rather than their teams 'throwing' their matches to force the finale. The dances had been complex as hell with the blades flashing in the firelight.

As had the dual handiwork of the two vixens in his lap. Soon it got to be too much, and Elena swooped down to take the tip of Mike into her mouth as Catrina maintained the rhythm. Mike's last rational thought was that he was glad they had moved into the semi-darkness, where nobody could see against their fire-blindness. Then there was no more thinking.

He'd had to actually bite his tongue to keep from shouting in pleasure, but with the music shrieking and the doli pounding as Vil led off with a spectacular display of axe-handling that left the gathered Keldara breathless nobody but the girls and himself noticed the byplay and aftereffects. The girls shared the Kildar's gift, blocking his view for a second, then chased it with ale from the barrel set near his chair.

Meanwhile, Yosif calmly matched him, move for move, blades blurring and flying around his head and arms, between his legs and around his waist. The girls didn't let Mike relax either, one nibbling his ear and the other stroking him hard again. He was almost hypnotized by the combination of sensations, music, and flashes from the blades before him.

Then it was Yosif's turn in the challenge. Gathering his concentration, he raised his arms, axes in hand, until they were fully extended from him. Then, he raised the axes, so they balanced in his palms on their hafts - and held them there, motionless. One minute. Two. Three.

Finally, after four minutes, sweat streaming from his forehead, he grasped the handles and lowered them. Vil stepped forward and prepared for the simple-appearing challenge. The girls changed positions again, and now there were different hands on him.

Fine, he thought.

He let his hands drift down, under their skirts. Just as he thought, no underwear. Just a moist and freshly shaved nexus, something none of the girls in his harem did. These two, though, from their lives in Lunari, had quickly learned that it made cleaning easier, and made them appear younger in the eyes of their clients; they'd continued the practice after their rescue.

Up the axes went, onto the palms. Vertically they stood, living symbols of the Keldara and their centuries-old warrior tradition.

Mike slid fingers down, searching, probing. He knew these girls well and knew just what they liked. There. His fingers moved in a quick, complex motion.

One minute.

Both girls were trembling, shaking like jelly, clenching his shirt and moaning quietly against his neck. He didn't relent.

Two minutes.

Elena came first, biting his neck to muffle her scream. Then Catrina on the other side.

Thr - one wobbled.

Yosif was mobbed by his team members and carried off, out of the firelight.

"That was amazing," said Mike, awed and exhausted.

"Amazing almost covers it," murmured Catrina. "Oh, you meant the dance?" She giggled. "I think it's time for round two. Yes, Elena?"

"Just you wait," purred Elena, nodding and unzipping his fly fully. "You haven't seen amazing yet."

"Elena, someone might see -"

"Not a word, Kildar. Now we give to you for all you have given to us," she said, then there was no more chance for talk as she took him into her mouth, leaning precariously from her perch on his leg. Mike found his hand steered behind and under her skirt by Catrina for support, who slipped off his lap. She took the bottle with her and adjusted her outfit.

Catrina then carefully masked any view of Elena from the crowd, performing a sensuous dance of her own before him with the green bottle. The light glinting off the glass caught the eyes of any who looked their way and distracted them from anything else. And she made sure that he saw everything of hers, too, while concealing it from the crowd. It may have shielded him from viewing the dance, not that he really gave a damn at the moment, but it certainly didn't distract him.

If anything, the sight of Catrina undulating and writhing before him added to the sensations of Elena's expert tongue and mouth teasing him. It wasn't long before he released into her mouth; expertly, she caught every drop.

Taking a solid gulp of beer, Elena said, "That was just to take the edge off." She giggled. "Well, the second edge." She refilled the mug. "The first was just blowing off the foam," and set action to words. "The girls have something special planned for you, by the way. We're just the warm-up act."

"And we missed you, too," said Catrina, kissing him as though she might not get the chance to do so again.

"Oh?" asked Mike, intrigued. It hadn't been that long, had it? He thought. Maybe a month before his engagement. That would be when Katrina was making her plans, and making clear her plans for Mike, his bed, and sharing either. No wonder these two were taking this chance!

"Yes," agreed Catrina. "But it will have to wait until later. There's more entertainment planned for you. You'd best watch and clap a bit. We'll let you keep your hands free. For now." Elena pouted again as Mike slid his hand from under her ass and the attached fingers out. "Watch, now. Your girls have been practicing in secret for weeks, even before you left for your trip."

Another team, Padrek's, had taken the impromptu stage. Arminis stepped forward, and as the instruments began to play again, Tinata joined him, dressed in a gauzy green and yellow creation that barely concealed her ample breasts. A veil covered her flowing red hair. The two began a flirtatious dance with alluring looks and brief touches, growing more and more bold as the music played. As the dance seemed to reach a climax, Padrek broke in roughly, separating the pair.

Though it had none of the rawness of Catrina's dance, Tinata's dance had something sensual about it which drew everyone's attention. Especially since it was one of the Kildar's women dancing, in so daring a costume before everyone, and not simply for her master's pleasure.

Now, Tinata stood to the side, chest heaving and blushing as she noticed all the eyes upon her for the first time. Reluctantly those eyes turned and watched as the two men, Arminis and Padrek, 'fought' over her, the stylized dance moves so emphatic that Mike could almost see the knives flashing out.

Again, the music built to a climax, then Tinata stepped back in, tossing her veil between the two. Chastened, they withdrew to either side while Tinata performed a solo dance, ending with her picking up her veil and stalking off, with the haughtiness only a redhead could manage.

As soon as she faded into the darkness, Arminis and Padrek resumed their 'fight', with members of the team falling in to either side. Now that they were separated, Mike noticed subtle differences in dress between the two. This 'battle' went on for nearly ten minutes before Tinata returned, again tossing her veil between the combatants. She began to dance again around the fringes of the group, sometimes singly, sometimes with a member of one faction or the other, working her way to the center where Arminis and Padrek awaited. They were so into the dance they were trading looks which promised death and mayhem. The ancient blood was certainly up, and he was glad that no one had showed signs of being a berserker.

Finally, she reached the center and began her final dances. She chose Padrek first, earning a fulminating glare from Arminis which went totally unnoticed. The pair were practically a single body, yet as they spun around Mike could see clearly between them; not even their palms touched. At last Tinata spun away from Padrek and into Arminis' arms. They spun away as the tempo increased, leaving Padrek behind. Again, they moved as one, closer together than she had been with Padrek but still untouched, until the music reached a crescendo and then fell into a sudden silence. Both partners stepped away, the men anxiously awaiting her decision.

She swayed between the two for a moment, then fell back solidly against Arminis. His arms went around her waist and she half-turned her face to meet his for a kiss. Unnoticed by the pair, Padrek and his supporters stalked off into the night, followed closely by the rest of the team. Finally, as the music resumed quietly, Arminis and Tinata strolled away into the dark. Now where would they be going? He hoped that she was going to deliver him to his wife, who'd administer what Hardesty would call 'a good rogering' as soon as they could find a dark corner.

As for Tinata... Well, she had her toys. And he'd have to find time for her later tonight. Unlike most of the harem, she never showed the slightest interest in any of the other girls, so he'd always made sure to give her a little extra attention.

"That was the Khevsuruli," said Elena. "It is a courtship dance."

"Really?" he couldn't resist saying. "I never would have guessed. So, what's next?" He used the bottle to conceal his rigidity - again! - from any passers-by.

"Now we drink more!" shouted Catrina to general applause. "Drink! Drink! The Kildar commands it! It's a party!"

After that, Mike's memory got a little hazy. He vaguely remembered Tinata joining them, and at one point he had a very sharp image of Catrina licking Tinata's neck, but very little else. Huh. She wasn't against being tended by another woman. Interesting. Though he did note she didn't reach for the other girls, preferring to devote her attentions to him.

Adams made a long, rambling, mostly incoherent toast, ending with, "An' I promise I won' tell her why you're really called Ass-Boy," before collapsing. Kacey looked down at the Chief, shrugged, and, with the assistance of a Keldara, dragged him into a clearing where some were already dancing. Later, Mike noticed him propped by the door of the shelter - surely the work of some merciful soul, as Adams was beyond Vegas drunk.

A third bottle of whiskey appeared but was quickly whisked away into the crowd, so he turned to the ale. He could taste a definite difference. No tiger berry, but some different spices. He thought it would make a good variety for export, if he could persuade Mother Lenka.

A boombox appeared and popular western songs started playing. It was quite the mix, from rock and pop to slow tunes to goth. Mike even caught a few techno songs, which the younger crowd seemed to love. The guys with the instruments tried to play along whenever something local popped up, but soon gave up. The mix - excepting the goth - wasn't anything Mike would have chosen, but it was intended to bring people together, give them something to slow dance to as well as being able to let loose if so inclined.

Many of the younger women took the opportunity to be as daring as they thought they could get away with, catching the eyes of the single men in the crowd. The three girls wiggling in his lap, meanwhile, kept rhythm to the music too. Each took a quick break to 'find the bushes', giggling upon their return and teasing him further. He was sure he'd been taken by each at least once, but couldn't be sure when, or what order. His alcohol-soaked attention was being yanked in all directions by the girls, and the music, and other distractions. Not all of them pleasant.

He remembered Vanner coming over with a stack of paperwork.

"Why now?"

"Needs to be done today," he replied, shrugging. Mike signed, even as someone was nibbling his neck. Somehow Vanner kept a straight face through the entire pile before smirking, "Have a good night, Kildar." As soon as he walked off, Mike felt someone else fully engulf him and squeeze him with well-trained muscles. That had to be Tinata.

He came hard again. After he did, Tinata kissed him and dismounted, saying something about checking in at the clinic for something-or-other. Catrina took her chance and slammed down onto him before he could even begin to shrink, finally releasing fully and crying out into his chest. Then she managed to turn and guide him to another home while Elena pleasured her.

How the girls kept a straight face while people wandered by to wish him well, he didn't know, and how the Keldara managed to remain selectively blind was another puzzle, but he didn't waste much thought on it. Instead, he concentrated on hiding his, 'I'm getting laid right now!' grin, a task that become more and more difficult as the night went on and the girls showed no sign of slowing, and neither did he. Whatever Kurosawa put into the tea, he ought to market it, he'd make a fuckin' fortune!

"It's good to be king!" he said abruptly, drawing confused looks from some of the closer crowd.

Even Mother Lenka paid her complements, speaking to the girls in rapid Keldaran. The only word Mike caught was the borrowed 'clinic'. Maybe they needed uppers to try to keep up with him? His ego was pleased with that thought.

Eventually, the Keldara returned to their homes, and the smaller group made their weaving way up to the serai, Mike supported by the girls. They left the Chief, snoring, on the ground by the fire, his face treated with a permanent marker to look like tribal tattoos. He'd deal with that in the morning.

"Tol' ya that messing with Marines was a dumb idea, Ass-boy!"

"Why do you call him that, Kildar? He doesn't seem to do that more than the other."

"How would you know, Catrina?"

She giggled. "We hear everything. Don't we, Elena?"

"He does do some things you don't, Kildar."

"Don't wanna know. I have some morals," he said with as much righteous indignation he could manage. "There are some things even I won't do. Ask him when he wakes up about the Philippines and the 'Apple-Banana' story."

At the serai there was a brief debate as to where to reconvene. Elena and Catrina voted for Stasia's dungeon, but were overruled by the rest of the harem, who had gradually drifted in, along with some of the Valkyries. Eventually the party staggered out into the harem garden. Torches were lit around the perimeter, and some of the hardier fruit trees were beginning to blossom. Surrounded by the perfume of a dozen beautiful women, Mike was dizzier than he'd been on the long walk back up to the serai. Though, to be honest, the walk had done him good, and had allowed him to pass back to being just pleasantly buzzed instead of totally fucking drunk.

To Mike's surprise, a buffet-style spread had been laid out by Mother Savina and Mother Griffina, while Kacey and Tammy took care of the booze. Finger foods, hot and cold, suitable for nibbling were arranged on two large tables: Soko (seasoned mushrooms), Satsivi (chicken in a walnut sauce), Boche Bread (coarse potato cakes with bacon fat), and then Mike saw the 'American' end: gigantic shrimp cocktails, mozzarella sticks, potato skins, sliders, and - were those buffalo wings? That was something he'd missed on his recent travels, and he loaded a plate with them.

Big, meaty, juicy wings, lightly breaded and fried, tossed in a rich, buttery, hot sauce - perfect! The gardens had just started producing peppers the previous year, after he and the Chief had explained their essential nature as a vital cooking ingredient and a virtual necessity for happiness.

Mother Griffina had, after much experimenting, been able to produce her own version of a hot sauce that used equal parts vinegar and vodka for a base. With aging, it got even better. The militia had created their own version of chili, though the best that could be said for it was it was a test of manhood rather than good eats. The Chief had sampled it, pronounced it, 'mildly entertaining,' and polished off his bowl. And a second. And a third. That raised him to just below the level of godhood to the Keldara.

The other expatriates were digging into the state-side food with relish too, while the Keldara were more divided. Catrina, Daria, Elena, and others who had traveled outside the Valley were ranging the entire length of the tables, choosing the local and, to them, more 'exotic' foods. Others, like Jessia and Kseniya, stuck mostly to the foods they were familiar with.

Then there was Mouse. Somewhere along the line she had joined the gathering and was now stoking her ravenous fires with just about anything she could get close to her mouth. Mike guessed that the trip to Dubai hadn't included much she considered 'good' food. She was making up for it now. Kurosawa, who held a soft spot for her, was acting as her personal servant for now. While Mike watched, he brought another piled high plate of delicacies to add to the pile of six already stacked before her.

"Hey, Mouse, glad you came out of your hole!" said Mike.

"Hellofph," she swallowed. "Kildar," she said around a mouthful of potato skins and Soko. "Thank you for the plane, especially on such short notice. Otryad appreciates it, too. Says he'll put it to good use, soon. You have friends who need to be moved from Russia, yes?" In went more food. Did she breathe?

"You're welcome," he answered, not entirely sure what she meant. The flight back? The Backfire? Who knew, with Mouse. Best just to go with it. "Where's Evan?"

"God-boy? He's tied up at the moment," she said with just a hint of a smile.

"Well, tell him he's missing a helluva party!" Mike leaned against a pear tree.

"I'm sure he knows, Kildar," she answered vaguely. Picking up a heavily-laden plate, she said, "I have to get back and watch over him. See you later. Hiro, bring me a platter of the cheesy things, some sauce, and egg rolls, please? Thanks. All of them, if you can manage it." Still chewing, she walked off.

"Yeah, see you." He shook his head. "Weird little critter."

Now that they were more private, the girls became less and less inhibited. Someone - Mike thought it Klavdiya but wasn't sure - brought out a MP3 player and hooked it to the speakers in the garden. Wait - speakers? When did that happen? Soon enough completely non-traditional music was blasting the air - Lady Something, Black Eyed Peas, Britney Spears, Pink, Nickelback - in short, nothing Mike would've chosen. But the girls seemed to enjoy it, and it gave them a slight veneer of an excuse to get up and start dancing, sometimes with their chosen partner, often with each other. Mike simply sat and stared.

A soft body on his lap disturbed his thinking, and probably just as well. The alcohol was making him more introspective than usual, and this really wasn't the right time for it. This, he wanted to enjoy.

A head nestled into the crook of his neck and a voice whispered to him alone. "Dance with me, Kildar," suggested Elena, tugging at his hand. "You can't sit there all night."

"I haven't been sitting here all night," he retorted with perfect logic. "I was down the hill earlier."

"Silly man. Get up."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Again? I thought I'd done enough of that earlier."

"No, I mean dance with me. Please." The usual kittenish persona was put away; this was a serious Elena, one who rarely appeared and even less frequently in public.

"When you ask so nicely, how can I refuse?" He stood and allowed himself to be pulled away from his chair. He did the basic white boy dance - tap a foot, sway back and forth, maybe a little hip spin for the more advanced - while she writhed around him, hands busy on his body, breasts and groin pressing against him. She didn't seem to care that she revealed to everyone that she wore nothing under that too-short skirt.

Soon he was aware of another body mirroring her movements; he half-turned and saw, as expected, Catrina. The pair had perfected their act during their months of slavery and saw no reason to break up a good partnership now. They managed to caress and kiss each other in passing, in time to the music, while never letting their bodies leave his for longer than it took to change places.

The other 'partnered' girls dragged their men out as well and began imitating the moves as best they could. First the Valkyries, followed by Mike's harem girls joined the cluster around him. Random hands and fingers slipped along his neck, his chest, his groin.

Memory got seriously blurred after that.

"I'm sleeping until noon!" he remembered saying. Of course, it was four in the morning, so noon wasn't unreasonable.

His next clear memory was of being undressed and brought to bed. The room was dark, and the woman with him wasn't talking, just leading him. Parts of him were clearly pointing the way. He could tell she was naked, though not her identity. The hairdo seemed different, something the harem was experimenting with, but he still couldn't pin down a name. Right now, he didn't much care. Between the drinking and the groping, if Mouse climbed in bed with him right now, she'd get the fucking of her life.

Despite his evil intentions, though, he found himself on his back on the sheets, the woman kissing her way down his chest, rubbing her nipples against him. He could feel her excitement, which stiffened him, and when she took him into her mouth he groaned in pleasure.

It was short-lived, as she released him after only a few strokes of her head and tongue. Before he could voice a complaint, or force her head back down, she was straddling him and taking him into her. Fuck, she was tight! Ready for him, he noted as he slid into her without the slightest hesitation. The magic Romanian balls again? If so, he was going to order them all to train with them. His toes curled so hard his joints cracked with pops.

Through this she was silent even as her body shook and trembled with building pressure and pleasure. Every time he reached for her breasts that the shadows barely revealed, her small hands would push his away and he found that he couldn't stop her.

He wasn't fucking her here, she was fucking him!

She rode up and down on him, hair whipping around, pulling his hands up to grasp her firm breasts and hard nipples. She moaned passionately and deeply with a voice he wasn't sure he was familiar with in his bed. But any further thoughts and guesses as to her identity - and it could have been Tammy, for all he knew - were driven from his head as he focused entirely on his groin and the nova-like fire that was building there.

He was so sensitive from earlier sex and constant teasing that he could feel every nuance of the insides of this woman - every fold, every quivering muscle, and the growing slickness of her internal lubrication - as she levered herself up, using his arms as a counterbalance and began to slam and grind down on him in earnest. A groan escaped his own throat that slowly became a primal growl as she expertly shifted her hips and applied extra pressure when he threatened to explode before she did.

After another eternity passed, he could feel her thighs tighten and start to spasm. Her nipples seemed to grow harder and longer than before, and he used his palms to stroke them as he grasped at her breasts and slammed up into her with all he had.

She whipped her head again and again as she approached a final climax. He could feel his building as well and thrust upward into her in counter to her movements, prolonging their contact and delaying the inevitable if possible. He lost the battle, and they came almost simultaneously, his grunts totally drowned out by her ferocious scream.

It was primal and only one woman had reacted this way with him.

"Oh, oh, oh," she said almost too softly to hear, settling down onto his chest. "I had no idea..." Her soft words were reinforced by the muscles still milking him inside her. But that was enough to splash frigid water on a moment that should have been one of cuddling and shared glow.

That snapped him back to reality. Though he was still trapped in the sweaty redhead glued to his chest, he snapped on a bedside lamp.

"Katrina! Katrina? What the fuck?"

She smiled lazily at him, a hand brushing against his face. "Will it be like that every time?" she purred. "I hope so. So many years I've waited for this. I'm not sure I forgive you for making me wait so long."

"Goddammit, Katrina! You're not supposed to be here!" He pushed her hand away and tried to sit up. He was still trapped inside her, and the movement seemed to set off a smaller explosion down deep in his fiancée. Who shouldn't be here, he thought again.

"Ohh. Oh? Again?"

"Never mind that! You're not supposed to be here! What are the elders going to do to me when they find out? Or you?"

"We've discussed this! By Keldara custom, you're already my husband, ceremony or not!" Katrina's voice was firm. She shifted her hips to maintain contact. "And a wife's place is in her husband's bed! I have told you this before. You are mine now, Michael. You can't take that away from me. Not now, not ever. Till death do us part, vows or no vows. We've sealed the deal, as the Chief would say." She squeezed him still inside her to make her point and bit his chest as another small shock shook her body.

"And I told you -" He felt the building fire again. "Fuck, stop that a second and listen to me, Katrina."

She laughed, a merry laugh. "And when have I listened, ever?"

"Point," he admitted grudgingly. A thought occurred to him. He reached down, and he hand came back from the point where they were still joined, bloodless though shiny with their commingled sweat and fluids. No blood. "I thought you were a virgin?"

Her temper flared. "You dare ask me that?" She squeezed as hard as he could to emphasize the prison Mike was still trapped in.

"Of course, I dare!" he snapped back. "I didn't feel anything break when I penetrated you! Where's your maidenhead?" He hoped to put her on the defensive while he tried to get his mind wrapped around the situation and how he could conceal it. Who in the harem could he sneak in and trade clothes with her?

She relaxed and gave him a small shrug he felt all the way down in his groin. Damn, that herbal mix was kicking in again. Down, dammit! Mind over matter! Wait - he'd never deflated. Kurosawa!

"Oh, that! When you finally gave in," she said, dimpling, "And it was clear I was to be Kildaran, a ceremony was held to the Goddess." As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Michael's curiosity about the Keldara's traditions and their Gods and Goddesses was well-known. Perhaps he'd simply let it go.

"A ceremony?" he said interestedly. "Do I want to hear this? Can I hear this?"

No. Not going to let it go. What to tell him? She couldn't lie to him, but she had to be careful with her words. Very careful. Hmm. As few details as possible. No chants, no names - he'd guess Mother Lenka, but she's the Priestess. She rolled her hips slowly as she thought. Best to hurry up, then fuck him silly so he wouldn't focus on the facts. As many times as possible, in fact. Tonight, was the critical night. In a few weeks, she would know. In a few months, the Valley.

"This, you can. Others? Not even the Kildar can know all the secrets of the Priestess and her acolytes."

"You are going to be Priestess?" He'd recovered enough to cuddle her into his shoulder, arm wrapped around her.

"As soon as Mother Lenka decides her time is done. It will be soon, I think. She is tired. Tired of life, too." She shuddered slightly. "I do not look forward to it, Michael."

"Why not? It's just a change in command, isn't it?"

She shook her head. "That, I cannot say. It is a secret of the Goddess." But I don't want to kill Mother Lenka! She's the only one who ever treated me as normal before you, Michael! "But you're changing the subject. I thought you wanted to know this, not delve where no man should dare."

"Right. Ceremony."

"In - our place," she said, almost slipping and naming the concealed, holy ground of their worship. "We gathered. I was stripped of my white dress and laid upon a - table." She almost said, 'sacrificial stone', but caught herself in time. "It was so cold!"

"End of the winter? Outside? You probably like to froze your pretty ass off." He caressed one cheek. "Good thing you didn't, though. Okay, white dress because you were pure?"

"Yes, a virgin. Once I lay down, the Priestess recited a plea to Eostra -"

"Eostra is your Goddess?" Mike asked excitedly. The Keldara's Goddess was always unnamed; he hoped that -

"No, but she is the goddess of fertility, and the spring. The Goddess is also goddess of love, and sex, and war and death, and - let me explain, please?" She hoped she could confuse the issue somewhat.

"Sorry. Go ahead."

"The Goddess has companions who act for her upon the world. Eostra, through the Goddess, grants fertility and brings back the spring. She does this by using the Goddess' feathered cloak as her own, taking some of Her power upon herself for that time."

"I follow that."

"My sacrifice to Eostra is - was - my maidenhead. The Priestess opened me ritually with a sacred knife, and my blood was caught on a cloak of raven feathers, as was the blood of the Kildarans before me. Then I was clothed in this cloak and said my plea to the Goddess. In the past, the Kildaran would be given a pigeon's heart to stain the marriage bed as proof of her purity to the Kildar. I suppose we can dispense with that," she joked.

A fertility goddess. Her hymen was taken at the height of her period, ensuring the most blood possible for her part in the ceremony. And to ensure the blessings of Eostra and the Goddess, it was imperative that she consummate her earthly relationship at the peak of her own fertility.

Mist had helped her determine that she would be ovulating tonight. A word to Kacey, who was only too happy to help, had secured this date for the party, the one night Mike might not notice who was escorting him to bed. A quick visit to the clinic earlier in the day had confirmed her fertility, and the plan was fully prepared. Kurosawa's tea was icing on the cake and would ensure that Michael would be at his peak all night and into the next day, though he'd pay for it later, she was told. But the deed was done, done gladly and done well. And would be done again - and again! She finally had him where she had wanted him for so long.

The first time had been for the Goddess, the second would be for herself. Though she felt sure she had shared her pleasure with the Goddess. She would repeat it for herself, and then for Mike.

Mike nodded. "That makes sense. A ritual sacrifice, and you, as Kildaran, take the same role as the Goddess does. Wait a minute," he said, a thought striking him. "Does that make me a god? I know I'm close to being a king - I think I said something about that earlier, and nobody argued - but a god?"

"No - though that might not be too far off," she answered archly, finally slipping off him and taking him into her hands. "I might be willing to worship at your staff again." She gave him an experimental lick and decided she could deal with their mingled juices this way.

"You know," said Mike. "People will talk."

"More than they already do?" said Katrina. "Impossible. And so, what if they do?" She kissed him. Another long lick. He was trembling in her dainty hands as her tongue traced several veins. "Now. How shall we worship this time?"

Mike almost answered before she swallowed him whole, driving speech from his mind.

He remembered the rest of the night vividly.

Especially the 'tongue-twisty thing'.
CHAPTER 54

Tbilisi; The Caravanserai

May 2/3

The secure phone beeped. That meant a call from someone important enough to have the ability to call that number, a very short list indeed. And that meant that he couldn't just ignore it, despite the other demands on his time.

"Jenkins."

"So how do I get to Alersso from Tbilisi?" The voice crackled and snapped. A land line, and not a good one. That meant it probably originated in Tbilisi like the caller said, and that it certainly wasn't secure. He heard the phone slam into something hard once, twice, and the worst of the static cleared. "I said, Mike, how do I get to Alersso from Tbilisi?"

"Pierson? You're in Tbilisi? I thought you were still overseeing a delivery?" No point in talking about the nukes over an open line.

"It wouldn't make much sense for me to ask directions otherwise, would it?" he responded acerbically. "Sorry, I'm running on caffeine right now and the ragged edge at that. Yeah, the delivery went smoothly, so I figured, what the hell, you invited me, and how often do I get a chance to get away?"

"I'll have a chopper there in a half-hour to pick you up." Mike grinned. Tired? He could solve that.

"I made it this far on my own. You don't have to -" Pierson began, but Mike interrupted him.

"Four-hour drive on typical third-world roads in a rental that's had the odometer clock over who knows how many times on minimal maintenance, then doing the pothole slalom on unfamiliar roads against locals. Or, a half-hour in the air. Your choice."

"Ah. Chopper, please. Half an hour's just long enough for a power nap."

Nap? Not likely.

"Thought so. Listen for call sign Dragon. And I'll arrange for the grand tour, plus a suitable room and personal attendant." Which Valkyrie had the duty? He'd get Vanner to sweep the room, make sure all the bugs were their own.

"Dragon? It's not that crazy pi-" But Mike had already hung up.

"Kacey! Need you!" he snapped over the intercom.

A moment later, "Go, Kildar."

"Two items. Need a VIP pick-up at TIA, grand tour, anything he wants to see."

"Easy. What else?"

"Anechka. How's she doing on flight training?"

"Coming along nicely. Why?"

"I have an idea..."

===============================

The PA blared almost continuously.

If it was quieter, and in English, and undistorted, it might be tolerable, or at least comprehensible. This PA failed on all three counts. For a brand-new terminal, they certainly seemed to have skimped on the sound system. Pierson shrugged. He'd been in worse before, he'd be in worse again. Newark came immediately to mind.

Finally, Pierson heard his name - he thought - but failed to understand any other part of the announcement. That was his signal to find someone who might be able to translate. He struggled with his bags until he found an airport worker who at least seemed to understand a modicum of English, mixed with bad Russian. Berlitz, he thought. If I'm going to spend any time dealing with Mike, I need Georgian.

"Pierson? My name was called?" He pointed to the ceiling-mounted speakers which were continuing their blattering.

He gabbled something in, what, Georgian? Definitely Berlitz. Don't care if I ever get out here again, at least it'll get me out of the office for a while.

"Meenya zavoot Pierson." God, what a mash-up.

"Pierson?"

"Pierson! Da!" He pounded his chest, nodding vigorously.

Another gabble and a nod from his chosen interpreter.

Pierson shook his head. "Nyet, nyet." He did his best to look confused, not particularly difficult under the circumstances. "I can't follow you, I don't speak Georgian. Uh...govoreet pa-russki?"

Using the international standard of making oneself understood, the worker slowed down his speech, increased his volume, and added gestures.

Pierson thought he caught a couple words of that. There were some Slavic cognates in there he could almost understand.

"Chastnikh terminalov?" He repeated it as best he could. Private terminal? "Where? Gdyeh?"

"Da!" The worker pointed down a long corridor, rattling off another long string of syllables. Good enough.

"Spasiba." Thank you. He smiled and turned in the new direction.

"Welcome." Oh, sure, one word. Great.

Five minutes later, Pierson reached the end. Literally. All that was ahead of him was a door inscribed in the curiously fluid Georgian script. He was sure it said something like, "Intruders will be killed and eaten," or something similar, but he pushed it open anyway.

Squatting outside was the single evilest-looking Hind he'd ever laid eyes on. Black from nose to tail, with a snarling dragon's head on the front, he knew it at once, even before the helmeted crewman walked over. The flight suit looked standard, down to the nametag that read, 'Bathlick', though the shoulder patch - a dragon in full flight, raining flame below - certainly wasn't.

"Colonel Pierson?"

Scratch that. Crewwoman. The voice was a dead giveaway; any curves were hidden beneath the suit.

"Yes?"

"Captain Kacey Bathlick, late of the USMC and currently playing chauffeur for the Kildar," she said, pushing the visor back and extending her hand.

He shook the proffered hand. "Pleased to finally meet you, Captain. And this is the famous Dragon?"

"The one and only," she said proudly. "Any more luggage?"

He gestured to his one bag. "Just the bag and the briefcase."

"Let's get you aboard, sir. This way. Careful of the rotors." He climbed up and in and strapped down while Captain Bathlick expertly secured the bags.

"You've done this before, sir?"

He nodded, yawning. "You're not flying tonight, Captain? Is it, ah, Wilson?" he asked, dredging her usual co-pilot's name from his memory. He'd noticed a slight whirring as the powerful turbines fired.

"No, Tammy has her own bird. Valkyrie."

Pierson was confused. That seemed to be his usual state in this country. "Then who's starting - did the Kildar hire more pilots?"

"Sort of," said Kacey as he settled into his seat. "You may want to secure yourself a little more tightly, sir."

Tightening the five-point harness again, he said, "Why? The weather a problem?"

"No. But Anechka's a little nervous tonight. It's her first night flight."

"Anechka?" The name staggered off his tongue. Definitely a local.

"Anechka Devlich, my pilot-in-training. I thought, what better opportunity?" Kacey smiled at Pierson, who had paled. "Don't worry, sir. I'll be right behind her. She's quite promising," she said, entering the cockpit. "Barf bags are on your right. You said you wanted to see the sights up close?"

"Mother of God..."

===============================

"You son-of-a-bitch!" Pierson greeted Mike with a snarl as he tried to flatten his hair - surely grayer than when he arrived in Tbilisi - back down from the helmet. His bags landed at his feet.

"Good to see you too, Bob," said Mike, grinning widely. "How'd Anechka do?"

"You knew about this?"

"Of course I did! I didn't realize how far along her training was until very recently," he said, throwing a knowing look at Kacey who looked off innocently. "She's almost ready to solo."

"I need a drink. What day is it? And where the fuck am I, exactly?"

"Two days before the weddings," answered Mike, shaking his head at the jet lag and the effects of the short flight to the Valley. "And how about a beer? I warn you, though, you'll never look at a Budweiser the same way again."

"I've had Mountain Tiger," Pierson responded.

"Not like this," Mike insisted. "There's a barrel left from the party we can tap; the others are reserved for the weddings, and even I won't cross Mother Lenka on that."

Pierson gave him the eye. Unaffected, Mike continued.

"Girls, get Colonel Pierson's bags. Bob, this is Herja and Reginleif, though we all call her Reggie. They'll be taking care of you during your stay." He said it with a completely straight face. Let Pierson figure out just what he meant. He knew that some stories had to have made it back to OSOL. Let's see how a man stuck behind a desk for a few years dealt with it.

===============================

One very large stein of Mother Griffina's brew later - the one unbroached keg from the party had been discovered and confiscated; Mother Lenka's brew was in short supply so what there was in the serai was being held for the wedding reception - and Pierson was ready to take care of business. Mostly.

He waved away an offer of a refill from one of 'his' girls, he couldn't remember which one. The names just hadn't stuck well enough in his sleep-deprived mind, and then Mike's harem had appeared. It looked like they were wearing feathers, and he tried desperately not to stare as they made their manners. "Learning to belly-dance," Mike explained after they cleared out.

That didn't help his mental state any, mused Pierson. And Mike was getting married? Must be a hell of a woman to get him away from all this! Then there was that background music. Quiet, familiar, but just out of reach of his memory in his current jet-lagged state.

He shook off his wandering thoughts. "Where's Major Hughes?" Bob asked to redirect the conversation as he dipped a meat-filled bun into a spiced meat gravy.

Mike finessed the question, knowing that Stasia had plans for Jack tonight. "He's on liaison duties right now. Probably well tied up. Should I call for him?"

"Screwing the harem manager again?" nodded Pierson. "Figured."

Mike's jaw dropped. "You knew about that?"

"Hell yes. You think that your girls blocked all the data dumps from our eyes in the sky? Fragged all the drives? Filled the servers with porn?"

"Actually, yes. They're damned good at what they do."

"You're right. Nothing's left on any hard drive anywhere I know of. I just happened to have it live on my monitor. Nice car, by the way." That plus the news chopper that had film that never made the six-o'clock news, and never would. The only copy was on a memory stick in his briefcase, and he was rather looking forward to showing it to the Major at some point during his visit.

"Good to hear. Anisa would've been really pissed if she'd missed one."

"Who moved first? Miss Rakovich or Hughes? That is slightly important."

"Stasia, though I'll admit I forced the issue. Yeah, he's with her now." He nodded past his left shoulder. "And he might be tied up right now, though more likely she is."

"And you don't mind?" he muttered around another bite. The food here was fantastic! He didn't notice the hand dab a napkin at the stray drop of gravy rolling down his more-than-five-o'clock shadow. Messy, but good. The hand returned to its mate, kneading his shoulders. He relaxed back into them.

"I've told her all along, she's a free agent. I'm really glad she's finally found someone else who can take care of her. And handle her needs." There was a note in his voice that Pierson immediately picked up on. The background music finally came into focus, singing, "Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the fandango? Thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening me." He gazed at Mike with sudden suspicion.

"What's going on, Mike?"

"Later. What's in the briefcase?"

Accepting the change of subject, Pierson put the case on the desk. "A little bit of paperwork to finish off," he said, opening and removing a sheaf of papers. "The finding approved you and the Tigers for recovering two dozen weapons, twenty-two at ten per, and the others at twenty per, for a total of two hundred sixty million."

"Damn."

"They wouldn't authorize payment on the twenty-fifth, though, on the grounds that -"

"Oh, I'm not arguing that point. Figured that, in the end, it was enlightened self-interest as much as anything else. Still. That's a lot of scratch, Bob. Do my bank accounts good, after the dent the girls put in it."

"It is. All of it non-taxable, of course. And now you get to sign for it. In triplicate."

"What's this bullshit?"

Pierson shrugged. "Since the money went missing in Iraq, the new administration's really tightened up procedures, or at least made more paperwork for me."

"Great," muttered Mike, picking up a pen. "Where? And my current name's good enough?"

"Down there, and yes, it is," pointed Pierson. "Oh, and the President wanted me to express his sincere appreciation of -"

"Yeah, whatever," interrupted Mike.

Pierson stopped his signing. "Okay, Mike, we need to talk. Privately."

"You're not in my chain of command, Bob" he replied, but smiled weakly. A subtle cough from the massaging Valkyrie drew his attention. "Go ahead, Reggie. Unpack his bag, prepare his room. We'll be fine, and I'll buzz if we need you."

He waited until she cleared the nook, then placed a small device on the table and turned it on. All the lights flashed green, then stayed a steady emerald color. No active listening devices in the area or on Pierson, and now any that were trained on them would just pick up so much static. Trust only went so far.

"Fine. Go ahead."

"You know how close you came to being blown, right? And why I borrowed the Mice, and the Mules, and Lasko, even though you had your own op in play?"

Mike looked puzzled. "No, nobody said anything to me."

"At least they maintained OpSec, then," muttered Pierson. "Here." He filled Mike's glass with Elijah Craig. "You're going to need this." He waited until Mike took a solid slug before beginning.

"So, there was a Major, you might remember her from Florida..."

Mike finished half the bottle before Pierson finished his brief. He looked at the pictures and intel Pierson had brought with him and reluctantly pushed it away.

"Fuck me." He reached for the bottle and took a long pull.

"Yeah. It was that bad."

===============================

The next day, one of the Fathers came up to the Serai, announced that the next day would be the Festival of Balar, and would he be attending? Purely a formality, of course. Everyone knew that Mike was getting married after the contests, which would be preceded by the first wedding.

Moonrise was to be the end of Mike's bachelorhood. It was perfectly fitting for this Festival and had been insisted on by the womenfolk, revealing Mother Lenka's hand as Priestess all over that decision.

Mike had zero input, even as Kildar. Not even on his traditional wear. They insisted he would look his best though - as he was their Kildar too and they, his Harem, would allow nothing to mar anyone else's opinion of the event.

They refused to be embarrassed, dismissing his attempts to wear anything comfortable. The girls had had a great time fitting him out for it and made it a game of teasing him to no end. That had ended when he'd ordered all of them to his room for one last bang - so to speak.

Stasia stayed that night with him too, coaching the harem in case they were called to share his bed with his new wife. That thought made Mike giggle more than a little bit. Kat? Inviting the harem? That lasted until they ganged up and tied him to the bed and made his eyes cross and toes curl repeatedly. It had almost been worse than the bachelor party night, or would that be as good as?

Morning finally arrived and his bed, well... He was lucky that Stasia had already ordered a new one to replace this one. She had been most insistent too. It seemed there was a tradition - of course! - with the Keldara that his bed be as virgin as his wife on the night of their honeymoon. He could sleep in it, alone, but no other until the Kildaran allowed it. In any case, his old bed was more than a little broken by the next morning.

He smiled slightly as the old, broken frame was removed. The Keldara would repair it, of course, and it would end up in the serai somewhere, or perhaps down in the Families' homes. It would certainly boost someone's status. And Stasia's insistence that nobody share his bed, even for the single night that remained before the ceremony, and her belief that Kat was still virgin, told him that the little minx hadn't told anyone yet.

They'd just assumed that someone else had been the woman screaming in his bed the night of his bachelor party. Well, everyone had been rightly snookered. Few remembered what had gone on that night with any clarity. That, in part, was due to the efforts of Elena and Catrina. He was sure they'd made the rounds, making certain misleading suggestions and veiled hints. That distracted those who wondered a bit too much too loudly. Right up their respective alleys, so to speak.

They had seemed to beam as much as Katrina the morning after his bachelor party.

The Chief? Not so much. Said he felt like he'd been bronco busted in the nuts and had no idea what had happened after the start of the party.

Typical.

Maybe he'd tell the Chief about his screwing up his date-night with the Marine? Naah, he'd save that for later use if need be. The man never learned, but Mike was glad to have him around. He'd be needed again sometime in the future. For sure. The men would need him and the hookers in the Serai would surely miss him if ever he left.

Mike had left him up at the Serai looking at the twelve boxes his Hog had finally arrived in. The Chief had looked like he was going to cry or kill someone at the condition of the parts. No wonder his ex had let it go so cheaply.

He finally made his way down the hill for the tree-felling and flower picking ceremony. He waved off offers and requests to help girls find the right flowers. Even though he was getting married, the girls of the valley were getting more forward in their advances towards him, ever since he'd ordered the end of the Rites of the Kildar.

He guessed, also, that more than a few had seen what Catrina and Elena did to him during the party. Or someone had and word had spread, perhaps even egged on by Catrina and Elena. He'd just let that be added to the legend of the Kildar. He'd neither confirm nor deny.

Preliminaries started after he'd arrived. He was on time, not that he'd have missed it for anything. This time he wanted to see the event firsthand rather than participate, to burn it into his memory. There was that other wedding to attend to the next day. So, early sleep was on his mind. If someone didn't find an excuse to keep him up all night again.

This Festival, as with the previous ones, Mike sat out with the Elders. He'd proven his worth as Kildar his first year. First amongst even their best. Now, he might participate in an event or two, just for fun, but no more all-night tree-hunting parties with the rest of the Burakan. That'd be too much like work now and the girls might try to risk family ire and corner him, force a sneaked kiss or more upon him. Nothing would be allowed to taint this day or the wedding to come, not on his part.

He sat back in his most comfortable chair and closed his eyes. Tonight, he was going to sleep in his own bed. Well, his new bed. Tonight, he was not going to worry about finding three trees the size of a man's thigh. Tonight, he was going sit back, drink a few beers and enjoy a peaceful...

"Oof!"

"Gotcha!"

Mike opened his eyes to Katrina's grin.

"Dammit, girl! I was resting!"

"Did they keep you up too late last night?" she pouted. Every night since the bachelor party, she had shared his bed, becoming more and more brazen as the days went on. Last night, in fact, was the first night she'd been absent, and she wasn't happy about it.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Just like you did the night before, and the night before that too!" He was grinning as he said it, though.

"You won't have to worry about that tonight," she said with a pout that slowly became a memory-filled leer.

"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow in challenge.

"Yes. There are certain rituals that have to be performed before the joining of the Kildaran to her Kildar."

"Purification? A symbolic bath?"

More pout, genuine this time. "You and your books again! Do we have any secrets from you?" She crossed her arms under her breasts and glared at him from short range.

"Enough to keep me interested," he joked. Turning serious, he continued. "Let's leave."

"Leave?" She stood, sliding off his lap.

"Leave. Exit. Take off. Hit the road. Take it on the lam. Blow this popsicle stand. Didee-mau."

"I don't understand, Michael."

"We went through the handfasting ceremony, so in the eyes of the Keldara, we're bound together, right?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"So why do we need a wedding? Let's finish our tour of America. Hell, let's see the world! Why stick to one little valley when the whole planet is out there?"

"I - we - you can't - Leave the Valley?"

"Why not? You liked the ballgame, right?" She looked puzzled and intrigued at the same time. That look made her more desirable to Mike than ever before. He saw the glint of freedom from the Valley and the Keldara light her eyes for a brief second before dimming.

"Why not? You liked the ballgame, right?" he repeated, insistently.

"Yes, but -"

"And the concert?"

"So loud, and all those weird people, but yes!"

"And Air and Space?"

"The shuttle! I loved that the best! And I was learning the whole time, too!"

That was something her keen mind had craved in the years before his arrival, something he'd changed quickly upon arrival. Education, more than money, would be the way for the children of the valley to grow into the twenty-first century.

"C'mon, it'll be easy. OSOL can give me a new name again, whip up a passport for you, any country you want, and we're out of here! You say the word. Pierson's here, down in his guest room, he'll do whatever I ask. He owes me, big-time."

"But the Keldara -"

"They'll have plenty of money, now. More than they can ever spend. Plus, with Genadi running the farming, and Nielson and Adams and Vanner to help keep the Tigers organized, there won't be any Chechen problems. The Rams will be up and running soon, too. Hell, they could turn this corner of Georgia into a new Silicon Valley, if they wanted to, or the next Detroit. They don't need a Kildar anymore, even if they think they do."

"And what of me, Michael?"

"Well, you can continue your education, for one. Really put that mind of yours to work. You can keep up your training, of course. Maybe you'd be good as a police psychologist - one that works the field, not behind a desk. Or a hostage negotiator. I don't know, but the point is, there's more for you out there than there is here!"

"And the Goddess? I am Mother Lenka's heir, her successor. My training has already begun. She is far, far too old to begin training another before her time is done."

"She'd have to. Find another one, hold on longer. She's stubborn enough to outlive us all."

Katrina shook her head. "I cannot. It would violate my oath to the Goddess. And how can you talk of abandoning the Keldara? You are the Kildar!" Her eyes flashed, her voice sharpened. "No Kildar has ever - ever! - walked away from the Valley!" She was nearly shouting at him. Thank the gods that most everyone else was down in the valley, watching the gathering. How long that would last, he wasn't sure, but having his offer thrown back in his face made something snap.

"Then I'll be the first!" he blasted back. "Dammit, Katrina, I never asked to be the fucking lord high baron of the Keldara! All I wanted was a safe place to go to ground, maybe make the lives of the people better! They sure got a hell of a lot more than I ever expected to give!" He didn't bring up the Rite; it was sure to get her riled up further, reminding her of his children running around the Families.

"Yet you took on that burden, Michael! You accepted it, you have become the Kildar in truth, as well as in word! You cannot -"

"Don't tell me what I cannot do!" he erupted. "Look," he said more quietly. "I've done my part. I've made the Valley a better place for the Keldara, haven't I?"

Reacting to his calmer tone, Katrina responded in kind. "Yes, you have that."

"Food, shelter, potential - all improved, right?"

"Yes, Michael."

"But the one thing I haven't brought - the one thing that I've actually made worse - is security. Oh, the Tigers could probably beat back any odd raid from the Chechens now. And sure as shit, no slavers are ever going to try to take a girl out of this valley again. But they're not sending raids anymore, are they?"

"That was -"

"A special case, right. Because I had to intercept a fucking WMD that would've wiped out the planet, or at least most of it. And what about this mess? Nuclear fucking bombs? A motherloving megalomaniac's plot that would have created a nuclear terrorist Islamic state in the middle of Russia? One that would have nukes to export? And why? Because I managed to piss off a sociopath who happened to be a former Stasi agent, and he decided to take revenge on me!"

"You didn't piss off Schwenke, Ka -" Mike interrupted her again.

"Not directly, but it was MY operations, MY operative that did it. Hell's bells, if I hadn't stopped in Alersso in the first place, Katya would still be a fucking whore! Everything that's happened here, all the shit that's gone down, all the people that have died - Sawn, Mikhail, Kiril, Gretchen -" He said the last name with a catch in his throat. " - It's all because I got lost in a fucking snowstorm. It's all my fault, and I can't do it any longer!" His head collapsed into his hands, sinking to his knees before his chair.

Suddenly it was all clear to her, and she knelt before him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Silently, she held him. Hugged him to her breast as though already a Mother.

She never knew just how long it was before she spoke again. Others should not, must not, see him this way.

"Michael. I love you. I have always loved you. You know this, yes?"

He nodded silently. "You've made that apparent many times. Once, on this very Festival day."

"Know this, too: this is not your fault."

He moved to protest, but she stopped his lips with a finger.

"You had your say. Now I will speak."

After a moment, she said, "Your coming here was foretold. I had dreams, long before you arrived, that spoke of it. You wonder, perhaps, why Mother Lenka chose me as her successor?"

"Yeah," he said, confused by the seeming non sequitur.

"My visions, Michael. I have the gift of Sight. Not reliably, or consistently, but always, eventually, correct. All my visions have proven true. All of them, Michael. And not once - never! - have my visions shown us leaving the Valley as you speak!"

"Maybe you just haven't had that dream yet," he said.

"I haven't had that vision because it will not happen!" she answered hotly. "Your life, your future - the Gods have foreseen it. You are the Kildar, Michael. And I am the Kildaran. Our children will finish the work we begin, making the Valley a paradise for the Keldara and all those who accept them, and destroying all those who would oppose them. Even if we must seek them where they hide, find them and strike before they can strike at us."

"Are we talking about a valley or the next Hitler?" he said weakly.

"Not Hitler, Michael. But we - you and I - shall make these people happy, and secure, yet still true to our traditions and our history. We have taken but the first steps together on this journey."

"How?"

She shook her head. "I do not know. The Goddess hasn't allowed that to become clear, yet. But it will happen, Michael." The voice of the next Priestess was evident, speaking ex cathedra. "Never doubt that."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll have to -" She leaned forward to whisper in his ear, smiling.

Grinning back at her, he said, "Now?"

She pretended to consider it for a few seconds. "Now!" she agreed.

"What about traditions?" he protested, pro forma. "This bed is supposed to be virgin until tomorrow night."

"Fuck traditions," she said. She stood and extended her hand to him.
CHAPTER 55

The Caravanserai

May 4

Katrina left before dinner. "Join me?" he asked, but she demurred. "I must fast tonight."

"Ah. Hope that just means food."

She laughed. "And I! Until tomorrow..." With a kiss, she was gone, properly dressed again. She carried a bouquet of flowers he'd gathered earlier on his run. It was quiet, now. At least until he heard a familiar knock, a pattern that announced, 'Friend coming, not stopping'.

"Come."

"Hey, Ass-Boy. Got something for you." The Chief was carrying a pair of small packages. He was also carrying heavier than usual, especially for inside the serai.

"Oh? I think - I hope - I can guess what's in one of them, but what's the other?"

"Depends on what you think is in the first package," he said, settling into a chair and dropping the packages on the desk. "Open this first," he continued, pushing one towards Mike.

He glanced at the writing - Georgian. "So where did you have to go to get these done? Tbilisi?"

"No. Tilaneti. Short hop in Valkyrie."

"Valkyrie? Not Dragon?"

"No. Kacey's not talking to me right now, not sure why, not sure that I care, actually." Mike didn't volunteer any information. Figuring out how he screwed up would be a good lesson for the Chief and apologizing to the former Marine would do wonders for his social skills. If he survived, that is.

"Still a haul. Thanks."

"Not going to open it?"

"Not now," Mike answered, putting it in a lock box in his desk.

"Fine."

"What's this other one?"

"Just a little something I picked up for you. A little early wedding gift."

"You really shouldn't have," said Mike, ripping at the paper, then bursting out laughing.

"No," replied Adams, "I guess I shouldn't have, but I did anyway."

The two boxes of Viagra fell onto the desktop.

"I told you before, Chief," Mike gasped between laughs. "Teenage virgins. Viagra not needed."

"Yeah, well, I figured that since Katrina wasn't a virgin any longer, you might just -"

"How the fuck do you know that?" asked Mike, all humor gone from his voice.

"The videos," answered Adams.

"What videos?" Mike's voice could have frozen helium.

The Chief began to realize just how badly someone - he hoped to god it wasn't him! - screwed the pooch.

"The videos of you and Katrina? I got them in an email, thought you'd sent them, bragging." He backed his chair away subtly to give himself more room to move. "You mean you didn't know about them?"

"What. Videos?" There was barely suppressed rage in that voice now, rage that promised mayhem and bloodletting of epic proportions.

"Maybe I ought to leave?" suggested Adams, rising. "You know, places to do, things to see..."

Mike's hand flashed out and caught his wrist. He wasn't going anywhere. "Not until you tell me about these videos."

"Well, ah, there's nothing much to tell." How the fuck do I minimize this? "Just you and Katrina doing some, ah, calisthenics. Horizontally. And superimposed. A little captioning, some graphics added..."

"Motherfucking MICE!" Mike's bellow shook the heavy door and rattled glasses. He'd had his suspicions, but the added details gave him the proof he needed.

"You want me to go get them? I'll go get them. Right now. Won't be a minute." And Master Chief Charles Adams, SEAL Team veteran of countless battles, skirmishes, and actions, fled.

===============================

While hunting Mice, Mike ran across Pierson.

""Is the place in Greece ready?" he asked.

"Yes," answered Pierson. "Although why I'm buying real estate for you..."

"Because you owe me."

"Whatever. In any case, with their economy in the toilet, the people were looking to sell quick. We got the whole cove for the original price of one of the houses."

Mike paused before answering. "That'll do for now. I hope she remembers her lessons and what Mother Lenka says later."

Looking askance at him, Pierson asked, "So you know what you're gonna use it for yet?"

"Not yet. Got to track down some Mice, first. You seen them?"

"Mice? No. Should I tell them -"

"Don't say a fucking word. I want this to be a surprise." Mike's grin was evil.

===============================

"...every bit and byte, or I will turn you over to Katrina and let her decide your fate." The Mice had been there for fifteen full minutes. Fifteen very uncomfortable minutes. Fifteen minutes of total silence from all four. Fifteen minutes of the most thorough and painful dressing-down they had ever endured.

God -Boy looked like someone shot his puppy. Catrina and Elena didn't look anywhere but the floor, though unconsciously they'd moved closer together for comfort. Even Mouse was subdued. Not one really looked contrite, though. Sorry for having been caught so soon, perhaps. He locked eyes with each one in turn, letting them see the fire that glinted within.

Now that the Kildar had finished speaking, Mouse spoke up.

"What about our last mission? Doesn't that count for anything? Pierson told you about it, didn't he?"

"Your last mission? In Dubai? Yes. It counts for quite a lot."

They relaxed slightly.

"It meant that you're here, instead of on the practice range."

"Practice range?" asked Evan. He swallowed.

"Live-fire range," clarified Mike. "It helps if the targets are moving in an unpredictable manner. Improves real-world skills."

"You're joking!" said Evan. "You wouldn't waste your best operatives this way!" He noticed the panicked looks in the women's' eyes and rethought. "Would you?"

"Bet me," replied Mike, frostily. "You invaded my privacy. Worse, you invaded that of my fiancée, who just happens to be the next Priestess." The women blanched at that. "And worst of all, you made these videos available to others!"

"It was only a joke!" said Evan, desperately. "We were just playing around with some new software! We didn't mean any harm!"

"And the videos are only in-house! They're not on a web-connected server!" added Elena. "Only the Chief and two of the Valkyries saw them that we know of!"

"They'd better not be on the web," growled Mike.

"Oh, we could design a worm that would seek and destroy any of the files that got out - not that any did that is - but that's easy enough, any basic hacker could do it. If it happened. Not that it did -" Evan shut up abruptly as Catrina and Elena kicked his shins from each side, staggering him but, more importantly, shutting his fucking mouth.

"There aren't," reassured Mouse. "Right, God -boy?" Her right fist curled in a special way that Evan was very, VERY familiar with. Mike noticed that he seemed to be more afraid of her than him. Well, given the arsenal she carried and the tools at her disposal, he probably would be too.

"Right, none at all, nope, not on the web, never happened, I never put a hack up on my distributed network in town - OW!"

Glare. Four of them. Evan reacted very much like a mouse when facing three angry cats and a very large tiger. He peed himself.

"Are we clear about this?" His voice was still arctic. "You might think you're the best, but there are others here who'll give you a run for your money who'd just love to dig up some dirt on you. The Vanners, for example. And if they find anything - anything! - then, not only does Katrina get your sorry asses, but you'll be detailing the Cave and any other grunt work Grez needs done. I'll ask again: are we clear on this?"

A chorus of meek "Yesses" met his ears.

"Good. Mouse, God-boy, you two take care of the files. Catrina, Elena, stay here. I want every bug out of my quarters, and I'm not leaving you two alone. You will remove them, and I will see you do it. Not just move them to new locations, like you've apparently done before."

"Furthermore. These rooms - my office, my apartments - are off-limits for-fucking-ever without my, or Kat's, specific permission. You violate that rule and you will learn pain, much worse than anything you've ever known before. Trust me on this."

"Yes, Kildar." The younger two turned to go, but before they could get to the door, Mike stopped them. "And Mouse?"

"Yes, Kildar?" she said warily.

"Thank you. That was good work in Dubai. I'll want to see the film when it's ready, with all the outtakes. We can enjoy the Mules' Traveling Comedy Show. But you have to remember about keeping on mission, and what your first fuck-up cost you."

She lit up. "You're welcome, Kildar!" Good mood restored, she practically skipped out the door, though her hands protectively covered her six.

Catrina and Elena were already moving purposely about the office. "How many of those fucking things are there?" he asked.

"Total? Or in here?"

"Both." He glared and was gruff, but not as severe as earlier. Let them think they were off the hook for now.

"Total audio, ten, video, thirteen. In here, one audio, one video." Catrina reached behind his chair, pulled out a device, tossed it to Elena. "Of the video, three are HD and aimable, either guided or autonomous. Evan cobbled them together for the mobile sentry units, so they react to body heat."

"Only one of each here?"

"Not much happened in here we were interested in," said Elena, smiling and grabbing a second device. "Most of the action was in your bedroom."

Sigh. "Lenochka, you and Catyenka will be the death of me, you know that?"

Hearing their pet names, Elena nearly purred, "Does that mean you forgive us?"

"Maybe. Later. IF you get all the bugs and PROVE it to me, then I might possibly."

Catrina pressed up against him. "I know we've been very, very bad, Kildar. We deserve to be punished."

Elena pressed against the other side, said, "Severely."

"Not right now," he said, resisting their temptations. "Cameras and mikes first."

"Yes, Kildar," they chorused, and resumed working. They moved to the bedroom and busily began removing bugs. Then, "If we get them all, can we use the Dungeon? On God-boy? It really was all his idea, not ours. He said he's getting bored with what he can find on the net."

A giggle. "He even wrote a script. We want to film it, but Mouse won't let us find two volunteers for readings."

"And practice." Another giggle.

"Please?"

Mike buried his face in his palms. "I have to think about it," he muttered. And have a chat with the Chief, and a couple Valkyries. Wonder how many copies they made? He shook his head, silently.

"I'll be back shortly." He visibly locked and alarmed his desk - no point tempting them further - and went off to visit the Harem's quarters. He'd need a few of their toys.

===============================

The Maypole was up, the Burakan taking their few hours of rest. Andrew and Jessia were in the courtyard of the serai, awaiting the beginning of their wedding ceremony. An arch of vines and flowers had been raised at the entrance.

Father Kulcyanov was presiding, with Mother Lenka assisting him. Younger acolytes of the Goddess had drawn a circle on the ground, and now four of them - Aiyana, Sephera, Illiana, and Alena - stood at the four cardinal directions. Father Kulcyanov stood at the center of the circle, clutching a rainbow of cords, and Mother Lenka stood at the south end with the couple, waiting.

Around the circle were the guests, including Mike, JP, Stasia, Jack, and even Bob Pierson. Most of the house staff had made it out, as well as men from Andrew's platoon. Doctor Arensky managed to squeeze himself between the Valkyries, who were all dressed alike and would at his own wedding form an arch with sword and spear for the Bride to walk under as she approached Mike. More than that he'd not been able to get from them.

"Sorry, it's a surprise."

"We're not allowed to say."

All in all, it would have been easier to move the ceremony down by the Tun and just reuse the same space for his own wedding. Mother Griffina had reached for her rolling pin when he'd brought it up at breakfast. So that was right out.

He'd taken his seat in a familiar throne to one side, surrounded by his harem and man servants. It was a crowded space. Every Family had sent at least one representative up, and it appeared that Jessia's entire Family was present.

Mike internalized his sigh. He wouldn't do anything to spoil this bride's day. If only he could remember his lines.

At the appropriate time - and only Father Kulcyanov knew exactly when that was, for he didn't seem to check any man-made timepiece - he raised his arms. Everyone fell silent.

"Father of All, we ask your blessing on this day and this couple as we join them in the ancient ritual."

Mother Lenka turned to the couple.

"Before you go further, know that your lives, having crossed, have formed ties between each other. As you seek to enter this rite, these ties will be strengthened. With full awareness, therefore, know that within this circle you declare your intent to be handfasted, not only before your gathered families but before the All-Father and the Goddess as well. The promises you make today and the ties you make will greatly strengthen your union, cross the years and bind your lives together. Do you still seek to enter this rite?"

Together, they answered, "Yes. We seek to enter." Mother Lenka embraced them, and led them to Father Kulcyanov, where they knelt.

"Mother," he said, his ancient voice strong today. "Do they know the full significance of what they seek?"

"They do, Father, for I have questioned them and can discover no deceit in them."

"And do you still seek this handfasting?"

"Yes," they answered.

"Then take them to the guardians to seek their consent."

Lenka led them first to the East, Aiyana, who asked, "What seek you of the guardian of the East?"

"We seek your blessing on our union," said Andrew.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of Delling: communication of the heart, and body; fresh beginnings with the rising of each sun. The knowledge of growth found in the sharing of silence," said Aiyana, wafting air over them with the waving of an ancient round shield. Lenka led them clockwise, to the South, where Sephera awaited.

"What seek you of the guardian of the South?"

"We seek your blessing on our union," said Jessia, this time.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of Niord: warmth of the hearth and home, the heat of the heart's passion and the light created by both to illuminate the darkest of times." She sprinkled barley grains over them.

They were led to Illiana, standing as Guardian of the West.

"What seek you of the guardian of the West?" she said.

"We seek your blessing on our union," they responded together.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of Nerthus: the deep commitments of the lake, the swift excitement of the river, the refreshing cleansing of the rain, and the all-encompassing passion of the sea." She sprinkled a few drops of water over them.

Finally, they approached Alena.

"What seek you of the guardian of the North?"

"We seek your blessing on our union," they answered again together.

"Blessed be this union with the gifts of Skadi: a firm foundation on which to build, fertility of the fields to enrich your lives, a stable home to which you return." Kneeling, she removed the shoes of both, getting an inadvertent giggle from Jessia as her foot was tickled.

Carrying their footwear, Lenka led them back to the center, and Kulcyanov. They knelt again.

"You have received tools from the guardians which will help you build a happy and successful union. Yet that is all they are - tools. Tools which you must wield in order to reap what you seek in this union. I bid you now, look into each other's eyes."

Right hands clasped between them, they faced each other.

"Andrew. Will you cause her pain?"

"I may," he answered reluctantly.

"Is that your intent?" Kulcyanov asked harshly.

"No!" came the firm reply.

"Jessia. Will you cause him pain?"

"I may," she said.

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

Addressing them both, he said, "Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?"

"Yes," they replied.

"And so the binding is made." He draped an orange cord across their joined hands.

"Andrew. Will you share her laughter?"

"Yes."

"Jessia. Will you share his laughter?"

"Yes."

"Will both of you look for the brightness in life and each other?"

"Yes."

"And so the binding is made." A yellow cord joined the orange one.

"Andrew. Will you burden her"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Jessia. Will you burden him?"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Will you share the burdens of each so that your souls may grow in this union?"

"We shall."

"And so the binding is made." A greed cord was added to the others.

"Andrew. Will you share her dreams?"

"Yes."

"Jessia. Will you share his dreams?"

"Yes."

"Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?"

"We shall."

"And so the binding is made." And a blue cord was layered in.

"Andrew. Will you cause her anger?"

"I may."

"Is that your intent?"

"No."

"Jessia. Will you cause him anger?"

"Almost certainly." A laugh came from the crowd at her totally honest answer, mostly from her family. It was quickly suppressed, but even Mother Lenka couldn't help but quirk her lips at the comment.

"Ahem. Is that your intent?" Father Kulcyanov continued as if nothing had happened.

"No."

"Will you take the heat of your anger and use it to temper the strength of this union, as a blacksmith tempers the axe?"

"We shall."

"And so the binding is made." The red cord, now, was added.

"Andrew. Will you honor her?"

"I will."

"Jessia. Will you honor him?"

"I will."

"Will you never seek to tarnish that honor?"

"We shall never do so," led by Jessia, Andrew stumbling a little over the Keldaran words.

"And so the binding is made." Here Mike strode forward and presented a royal purple cord to Father Kulcyanov. It nearly completed the collection. Only one was left in his hand.

"Will you endeavor to maintain the purity and sacredness of this union?"

"We will."

"And so the binding is made." The final cord, a brilliant white, was placed over all the others.

"Above you are the stars; below you, the stone. As time passes, remember. Like a star, your love should burn brightly. Like a stone, your love should be firm. The All-Father and the Goddess are with you now and shall be with your always!"

Turning stern again, he continued, as Mike stood behind the pair. "The knots of binding are not made only in this place. They spread from you backward and forward, joining you forevermore. Only you can loose the cords of binding, for as always, you hold in your hands the strength - or the breaking - of this union. Now, stand."

Mother Lenka held Jessia's hand high in the air, as Father Kulcyanov did with Andrew's. They handed the pair off to Mike who led them to the arch and stood before it.

"Henceforth, you are married. You belong to each other and," he faced the young Ranger, "You belong to the Keldara. Take the final steps together through the arch of Spring and into your new lives together."

They did so and the assembled Keldara hooted, the Rangers applauded and whistled.

"What gifts were brought as tokens of their love?" asked Mother Lenka as they turned and reentered the arch to stand again before Father Kulcyanov.

Mike stepped forward. "I bring these rings." He opened a small box and removed two rings, golden bands, each with a blue garnet set into the center.

Mother Lenka took the rings and dipped them once, twice, three times in a simple chalice that was filled with - was that beer? It was! "My own brew, of course," she cackled to Mike, who smiled back.

She presented Jessia's ring to Andrew.

In English, he said, "I give thee this ring, and call you my wife and companion. It symbolizes the endless cycle and neverending nature of my love for you." And, with some difficulty, he placed it on her ring finger. Mike almost spoke again, but sensed Father Kulcyanov's disapproval at Mother Lenka's impromptu line. He may be Kildar, but certain things were done a certain way. Ad-libbing was not to be tolerated.

Jessia, with Andrew's ring, spoke next in Keldaran. "I give thee this ring, and call you my husband and companion. It symbolizes the endless cycle and neverending nature of my love for you." Much more deftly, she slid the ring on his left ring finger. She then leaned in and kissed him, as Kulcyanov said, "With the blessing of the All-Father, I declare this union sealed."

Everyone applauded. Someone popped the cork from a bottle of champagne and began to fill the tower of glasses by the pavilion.

Aiyana brought an oatcake to Andrew, who lifted it to Jessia's lips. "May you never hunger," he said, and she took a bite.

Illiana now approached, picking up the chalice and handing it to Jessia. Touching it to Andrew's lips, she said, "May you never thirst," and he sipped.

Sephera now stepped forward with an obviously hand-made broom. She placed it on the ground before them, intoning, "This is the symbol of your hearth, and your home. May it never fray or rend."

Alena, the last guardian, walked in, carrying an axe. While it was decorated much as the Family blades were, it was obviously new. The sigil of Two-brow was upon it, a twisted bull's head. "This axe symbolizes your commitment to protect your home. May none ever separate you." She laid it crosswise over the broom.

Mother Lenka now said, "It is our custom that the new family walk the circle three times, jumping the axe and broom on each circuit." Hands still joined, they did so.

Father Kulcyanov, after the final jump, said, "Andrew and Jessia, please pick up the axe." Hands together, they did. "Jessia Mahona, you have left your Family to join with Andrew. But as Andrew is not of the Keldara, he has not an axe of his Family. Therefore, I charge you both, take this axe and create it as the symbol of your new Family. Let the ranks of the Keldara grow, with this honorable man and woman, for it has been far too long. Time may have diminished the Families, yet we shall grow strong again with the inclusion of one such warrior."

With that final pronouncement, Father Kulcyanov left the circle, followed closely by Mother Lenka and her attendants. The crowd closed in around the new couple. Mike took the chance to slip aside and let them have their moment, but it didn't take long for his staff to find him.

"A new Family, eh? Wonder why they didn't do that for Grez and me," said Vanner.

"Maybe because you had been here for a while? Or maybe because Grez hadn't been married before?" speculated Mike.

"That makes sense. Jessia married once, and he was killed. But she'd left her family, and since he's dead she's not really a part of his family either. Where'd you get those rings, anyway?"

"I had them made for them out. Used some of the garnet we found in the Emir's safe. Kind of a combat bonus."

"A ring?" scoffed Vanner. "Not much of a bonus."

"You didn't tell him?" Mike said to Adams, who had snagged a mug of beer for himself and another each for Mike and Pat. His ability to find, and acquire, beer was near-legendary. Mike swore that Adams could find beer in a desert. Blindfolded.

"About the garnet? No. Figured you should - or not. Your call."

"True enough. Well, Pat, it's like this..." He passed Vanner a mug and watched as he drank deeply.

A moment later: "Holy FUCK!"

He did the Corps proud. He didn't lose a single drop of beer. Though it took some time, and Grez's help, before he closed his mouth.

===============================

"Why do we have to be the Ready squad?"

"Yeah!" The sentiment echoed through the bay.

"Look, I didn't make the roster, it's not my choice either! At least we're up in the serai; did you hear about that new recruit?"

"Who, the Chechen?"

"Yeah. Qays. He's got roaming patrol duty, full kit. And they added stones to his pack, see if he can cut it."

"A rock pack ruck march? Fuck if I want to be him."

"Yeah, sucks to be the nugget."

"Okay, this isn't so bad. We'll be able to catch some of the games, and the feast too! It's gonna be some wedding! You hear that the Kildar actually imported cooks?"

"No, that was Mistress Stasia. Heard her talking, bragging, about the menu to the new Major. Can't believe the Kildar's giving her up."

"Yeah. Don't tell my wife, but that night before the wedding, when she was with the Kildar? Words cannot describe - I'm still trying to teach my wife those tricks!"

"Kinda hard when you can't give out details or explain where you learned it, eh?"

They all shared a laugh.

"Who's up for MOH?" Hands scrambled for controllers and headsets.

"Time to own someone! Oh, yeah, if anyone sees God-boy, we've got orders from Mouse to hang him from the flagpole by his underwear again."

===============================

The festival was nearly over. It looked like Oleg was going to lose to Vil this year, but only by the smallest margin. Of course, Vil was losing to Savo by twenty points. It had been close until the Test of Man, where Savo'd pancaked Vil three times in a row with moves that showed a serious diet of American professional wrestling backed by dirty SEAL tricks. Which only made sense, as Chief Adams had been their primary instructor in CQ combat. He scoffed at the techniques the Gurkhas were teaching. Sure, they worked for small, quick men, but what if you were the size of a comic-book superhero? That took a devious mind, and the Chief readily supplied it.

Team Mule, then, surprised everyone by taking the team banner this year. No excuses about not finishing. No dead bulls. And no smashed axes this year, either.

Everyone took that as a good sign.

Katrina was in her Family's home, waiting. She hated missing the Festival, but it was simply easier to remain in the house than trying to avoid Mike.

Noemi had arrived that morning with the dress. Mike was going to be so pleased! Backless, it plunged down to the base of her spine and a fraction beyond. It fitted itself snugly to her hips, and descended sheer to her feet. The front was held, barely, by a tiny halter around her neck and a satin ribbon tied below her breasts. Full, lacy sleeves reached to her hands and over her fingers, almost glove-like. The lace was formed to represent springtime, with floral designs subtly woven throughout. There was no way she could wear any panties or a bra; fortunately, she didn't need the support. She did wear a single garter.

She couldn't wait for Mike to take it off her.

For the third time in as many minutes she grumbled about not being able to wear her holdout pistol. There just wasn't any room, no matter how high up she wore it, not in this dress. And it kept getting caught in her hair. Well, that at least she could fix.

Stasia had carefully instructed her, during her weeks of lessons. Even in the harem, only two shaved, but Stasia swore that it made sex better, and less messy. So, ever so cautiously, she did it. Wouldn't do to cut herself the day of her wedding.

===============================

With last Test had finished and the ready teams freshly rotated, the Keldara were finally gathering for the crowning of the Ondah. The horn of the Hunt was presented to the Mules by Mike and Father Kulcyanov together.

"Get me a fat boar, tomorrow, boys. I need something to hang over my fireplace," Mike joked, but the Mules had probably taken it as an order. Whatever. Not his problem. They had a medic and a good doctor too.

The crowd then started to move down the hill towards the cooking pits, filled with more meat than ever before. He noted that there were even more tables being filled with delicacies for that evening's wedding feast too. He counted at least twelve men and women in Chef's outfits down below. Someone had even brought out a mobile kitchen from somewhere. Had he signed for that? Likely. At least Mike knew Meller would make good use of it or it'd be moved into one of the emergency shelters.

Seeing all was well, for now, Mike sought out Adams. By the kegs. Of course.

"Ass-boy. I gotta calm down. You mind holding this?" He pressed a box into Adams' hand. "The rings we had made up for the Fathers and Team Leaders are in there. Chips and dust for the men, gems in the family totem eyes for the leaders and Fathers. I'll give out the ones for the staff up at the serai in a day or two, privately, so the others can feel special before they see yours."

He looked at the setting sun.

"There's a special medallion for Mother Lenka, too. Look, I'm gonna take a walk. Shouldn't be more than twenty minutes, maybe thirty, tops. I'll be back before the torches are lit and they start the drums going to call the warriors to attend me." He rolled his eyes at his best friend and was met with a smile, albeit one mostly hidden by a giant mug of beer.

"Don't be late for your wedding," joked Adams. "Tell you what, take a real walk, and I'll get with Father Kulcyanov. See if he'll delay things a little bit so you have the time you need. Tell him you wet yourself from nerves. Anyone marrying Katrina has a right to be nervous. He's married; he'll understand."

"Thanks, Chief. You're a good friend." Quietly, Mike made his way out of the crowd. He made full use of his ability to blend with a crowd and soon was making his way away from the chaos around the Tun.

"Where's Mike going?" asked Nielson, who had noticed Mike's departure.

"He needs a walk," explained Adams. "Nerves."

"Don't blame him," agreed Nielson. "I'd be scared shitless, myself. Did he say where he's going?"

"No, but it won't be far. I told him I'd buy him an hour. Hope he doesn't fall down. Katrina and Stasia'd kill him if he messes up that outfit."

"And what an outfit it is."

The two grizzled warriors shared a laugh and returned their attention to the beer.

===============================

Mike found his feet leading him to Katrina's room, his hand knocking on her door.

"Enter," she called.

He opened the door to a very surprised Katrina.

"Michael? What is –"

"We need to talk."

"We will, very soon."

"Now."

"Now?"

"About the wedding."

In a small voice, Katrina answered, "Oh."

He sat heavily in a chair near her.

"I've been thinking –" he began, but she cut him off.

"I agree," she said, simply.

This threw him off his guard. "What?"

"Yes. I agree. Whatever it is, Michael."

Now he looked at her askance. This wasn't Katrina, but before he could ask, she continued.

"We are handfasted – betrothed – engaged. Whatever you say, of course I will agree."

Now he could see the glint of humour in her eyes. Good. That might make the next bit easier.

"Uh-huh," he said. "Sure. Pull the other one."

She grinned at him, laughing. "Oh, Michael, you looked so serious!"

"I really do need to talk to you, Kat." The tone of his voice sobered her.

"What about?"

"The wedding."

"But – there is no time to change anything!"

"There is if we say there is. They can't exactly start without us, can they?"

"Well, no," she admitted, and he interrupted her there.

"Then shut up and listen." He paused a beat before continuing. "Good. You know I've been, let's say reluctant, to go through with this wedding. Not because I don't want you!" he added hastily. "But because of the repercussions for the Valley."

She nodded.

"And what you said to me before, about the handfasting. That's correct? That the ceremony is just a formality, but in the eyes of the Elders we are married?"

"Ye-es," she said, drawing the word out. "The intention is taken as the deed, for most couples. There are specifics duties and rituals of the Kildar and Kildaran which are, ah, impacted by the formalities, but, yes. On the whole."

"Then we're going to skip the wedding. For now."

The storm clouds rolled onto Katrina's face, and Mike hurried his explanation.

"You are still going to be, hell, maybe you already are, the Kildaran. Nothing is going to change that!"

The storm receded slightly.

"And you are, by the gods, going to be spending your nights in our bed. As you said, fuck traditions. I've been turning tradition on its head since I came here, and I don't see any reason to stop now."

"So why not wed?" asked Katrina.

"Call it a gut feeling. I think that there would be issues, problems, that we can't even imagine yet, if, no, when we wed."

"But we talked –"

"Yes, we did, but I just think – Look. One of these days, when I'm not the first person they call when shit hits the fan, when I don't have to chase after nukes and chemical weapons and nerve gas and who knows what the fuck else, when there aren't terrorists out there with a personal grudge against me and who don't care who gets in their way, or maybe just when my knees can't take one more hard morning's training, then we'll do it officially. We'll have the right and proper ceremony, or maybe just you and me on a beach somewhere saying some words to each other, I don't know. No matter what, though, I promise you: that day will come. It's just not going to be today."

Katrina sat and processed this, examining his words. Eventually she nodded.

Eyes down, she said, "Yes. I do agree, Michael. It will be as you say." Then she lifted her head. "But you will be my Kildar."

"Yes," he agreed.

"And I will be your Kildaran."

"Yes," he said again.

"You will listen to me and we will do things together, as much as we are able."

"Yes," he agreed again.

"And you will be in my, no, our bed every night."

"Yes," he agreed with enthusiasm.

"And you get to tell the Elders and Mother Lenka."

"Oh, no you don't. No."

"It is not my decision, Michael –"

"No. But we will do this together."

She considered.

"Together?"

"In all that we do. That starts now."

"Yes. That is right." Now she smiled. "I think Mother Lenka will not be surprised, but the Elders...?"

"Hmm?"

"They will shit."

THE END
Stories from The Kildaran
Hey, glad you made it this far!

Think of this as the 'deleted scenes' part of a Blu-ray.

Richard and I worked hard on these parts, but they didn't quite fit into the narrative flow. Rather than throw them away, though, we've decided to add them on here for you to enjoy. Hopefully, they answer some of the questions that the story left hanging.

One note on the dating: all the dates refer to the first chapter of the book, so early March.
BUCKLEY'S TALE
Florida Army National Guard HQ

Three Weeks Ago

One more fling.

That's all she wanted. Her flight left in the morning, all the files were gathered, the data collated and organized. She'd infiltrated exactly as J had planned and made it look easy.

But for now...

Now, it was time for some fun. She deserved it, dammit! And she was in America, not some godforsaken hellhole for once. She was due, and past due, for a good time.

She considered her options.

Had to be someone young. Otherwise, they just didn't have the stamina.

Good-looking? That would help.

Desperate? Wouldn't hurt. Maybe she could get a couple of 'em to fight over her. A good fight always got the juices flowing well.

Someone being shipped overseas soon. That would do nicely. Time to practice some hacking.

She called up the deployment orders and considered. Personnel photos narrowed down her choices. Ringing the BOQ, she asked after her targets.

Shit! Three were off-base somewhere, one had the duty, and one was in the infirmary with a broken leg. That had possibilities, but...no. Too much work.

That left her just one possible. The Officer of the Watch suggested he was at the Officers' Club.

So. Hair, check. Looked good. Makeup, check. Ditto. Panties, check. In the trash. She wouldn't be needing them tonight.

===============================

The lieutenant's friends helped him up from the floor of the O Club, even as he shakily tried to rescue the remains of the two recently dropped bottles of Tiger Brew another junior lieutenant held in his hands. Not only was that beer more expensive than any other import in the O Club, it was rare to find anymore, it was that good. Fighting men loved beer. And plentiful good cheap beer (other than free beer, by definition) was heaven.

No other American brew could match it. Many were trying and failing. But it did mean that the number of good micro-brews were increasing, to many a serviceman's delight as hey sold them on base for a much cheaper price than could be found anywhere else. Many micro-breweries were shipping their versions of Patriot brand beers and donating a portion of their funds to the many VA and Soldier Family funds out there now. But Tiger Beer? That was something special, if the stories of where their donations went were true and what had shown up on the news live was to be believed. Someone buying a Tiger beer had paid for the bullet that had terminated a head honcho of the Jihadists live on TV.

"Oh, hell Buckley! What exactly did you say to the Major? She looked pissed! And here I was, thinking she was going to come right over and blow us all! Until you made your move. Better you than me."

After allowing himself a few moments to swallow his balls and check that they were back in place, Second Lieutenant Joseph Buckley - Buck, to all his friends - groaned and took his first deep breath. The pain was fading, almost. More beer and shots would help. Ice would be better.

"She was giving me the eye, mostly. You all saw that," he said, almost desperate. "So I bought two of the best beers I could afford to impress her!" He pointed at the redheaded girl on the bottle's label.

"When she saw that girl and the name on the label, she turned red, hauled back, and soccer kicked my balls up into my throat. That's all I did! I swear, I never got to say a word!"

"Probably a good thing you didn't," said 2LT Lawrence 'Sandy' Winde.

"Other than, 'Urkurgle...arrgh!?' " added 2LT Jay Raymond.

Buckley tried to glare at his wingmen for the night. "If I didn't feel like I was dying right now, man. You'd be getting my foot up your ass an inch at a time."

"Man, that's too bad, she looked like she could suck start a Bradley and wanted to test that theory on you Buckley," added the third, 2LT Robert (Don't Call Me Bobby!) Baum.

"Shut up and get me an icepack if they have one. Or a bag of ice and a towel. And, damn it, give me those beers back! I paid for them."

"You sure did," agreed Winde.

"Probably the only girl you're gonna get with tonight, Buckley," his friends chuckled. Raymond pointed at the label.

"Frak a cactus you bastards!" He took a long, long pull from the beer. "We're going to the Sandbox in a week. I wanted to get laid first. I don't want to risk the local comfort shacks or get a short marriage arranged and find out it's for real in the Army's eyes instead."

"At least she didn't break your hands, Buckley. You still have a chance before we ship out," mocked Baum.

Buckley's face turned as red as the girl's hair on the label, and nearly as red as the woman who had kicked him less than two minutes ago. Even though he had above-average looks, and was smarter than the average butter bar, his lack of success with women was a legend in the barracks. A legend he'd sooner forget.

"Laugh it up, fuzz ball, and they'll be calling for medics and MPs. Assholes." He shook the bottles. They were ceramic; you couldn't see the level. "Fuck! There's less than half a beer left in each!"

"Two halves make one. Better that than none," said Baum.

Buckley looked down at the puddle on the floor, already being sopped up by an enlisted man. "Like my balls feel at the moment."

"One cure for that Buck," said Winde with a manic grin.

"What's that? Not going to that topless place again. Last time we were there, that tranny hit on me so hard I almost went home with her. Him. It. Whatever."

"No, no, no tittie bars tonight! Tonight, it's tequila and rum concoctions! Arriba! Up you go. Finish those off, then we're moving to the hard stuff. We'll put it on my new credit card and I can pay it off with our oversea and combat bonuses. Bartender, Sir!" The civilian behind the bar looked at them dolefully. The nametag said, 'Marvin.'

"How can I help you? PhD in philosophy and I end up serving drinks..."

"Set us up a round of highballs, Mexicali style."

"Right away," he said. Turning, he rubbed his hand down his left side as if in pain.

"I swear I'm gonna kill you guys one day soon." His threat didn't prevent the rest his buddies from laughing loudly.

"I'm gonna make that jukebox play every Jimmy Buffet tune it has," said Raymond, then froze in place.

The O Club suddenly hushed.

"Oh, shit," murmured Raymond.

"What?" said Buckley, as a hand descended on his shoulder. MPs, he thought. Bitch put me on report! He swiveled around, face twisting in anger, ready to defend himself as vigorously against the MPs as he hadn't against the -

Redhead.

Oh, fuck me.

"Lieutenant." It was her. The red-headed major. Buckley's balls shrank back up into his body.

"Major." His voice didn't quaver, he was pleased to note.

"I think that I was a little too harsh. I wanted to apologize to you, make it up to you. Somehow." Her intent was crystal-clear in her voice, but in case he was completely numb she let her hand slip to his crotch for a quick grope. "If you're up for it, that is," she added.

He relaxed. "Boys, I'll see you in the morning."

She took his field scarf in hand. "If you're lucky," she said.

The silence continued until well after the door closed behind them.

Reverently, Baum said, "I will be dipped in shit."

===============================

It was still rather drunk out the next morning when they gathered for breakfast.

"Where's Buck?" asked Winde.

"He didn't come back to the BOQ," answered his roommate, Raymond.

"There he is!" said Baum, pointing.

Buckley did not look well. His hair was wild and matted, and was that blood? The torn tunic revealed bite marks around the base of his neck. One arm hung loose at his side, and he was limping. His skin was pale and mottled. And - was he missing a tooth?

He dropped into an empty chair.

Winde was the first to speak. "What the frak happened to you? Get hit by a car?"

"Looks more like a hummer," said Baum.

"Don't say that word!" snapped Buckley.

"What, hummer?"

"I don't want to hear that ever again! And I need you guys to promise me something?" he continued.

"Yeah, sure," was muttered all around the table.

"If you see that red-headed bitch Major Ivanova headed my way again...?"

"Yeah?" said Raymond.

"Just shoot me," finished Buckley, and collapsed onto the table.
SHOTA AND THE MICE

The Valley; Tbilisi; Mike's Office

Eleven Months Ago (Festival of Balar)

Somehow the tests had changed since the Kildar came to the Valley.

It was a natural thing for families to cheer for their members. It was what the Keldara had done from time immemorial. But now there were differences.

Now, the teams each had their own name and flag.

Now, they worked together to prepare for the Tests.

Now, there were more healthy young men than ever before to try for the title of Ondah.

It had begun the year before, with distinct cheers for teams instead of just individuals. This year, a handmade scoreboard had appeared to score, not only individuals, but the teams as well.

Space was at a premium. It was no longer practical, even possible, to have all the contestants present at a single event. To prevent bottlenecks, Chief Adams had devised a round-robin system, rotating through all the Tests until everyone had had a chance. To keep the judging fair, a pair of Elders for each separate event was selected, with the understanding that an Elder could not judge his own Family. The individual winner was still named Ondah, King of the Spring, but now there was a winning team, as well

The reward had been up in the air for some time, until Father Mahona had produced an ancient hunting horn. The winning team would now get the Horn of the Hunt and be sent out to hunt Spring Deer and Boars the day after the Festival

The Fathers wanted nothing to do with the fate of the team that came in last. Vanner and Chief Adams finessed that, saying, "That's a militia problem, and so we'll take care of them."

That relieved the Elders, but now the problem was dumped in their laps.

"Not knowing the shit detail always made me try harder," admitted Adams.

"Shit? Perfect!" exclaimed Vanner, to Adams' confusion. "Don Meller's back, right?"

"Yeah, he's gonna try to set up a better water and septic sys - oh, man, that is evil!" chortled Adams.

"You got it. I'm sure that Don would appreciate a couple dozen strong backs, don't you? Digging trenches, laying pipe from the reservoir, filling in the old outhouses, and don't forget the septic tanks."

"And if they slack off, we could always have Don 'volunteer' to clean up Alerrso's system too."

"Yep. Think that'll get them moving?"

"Think maybe." The evil grin said it all.

That settled, talk had turned the occasional rumor of slavers trying to make another run south around the Valley. The Mountain Rams were going to be a hell of a surprise for those scumbags, not the "I'll gladly take your bribe, Sir" Georgian military. If the slavers were even unluckier, they might even get caught up in one of the Mountain Tigers' random check points.

===============================

Doctor Arensky and the young Swedish medic, Mist were making the rounds of the day's events. She was kind enough to share her arm and tolerated the hand brushing against her ample bosom.

"I think we should stay here and watch the next few groups come through," Mist said with a whisper almost too soft to hear. It reached the Doctor's ears just fine, though, and made him wish he were twenty, no thirty years younger again.

They were preparing to lead in a new bull, replacing the first, who'd accidentally had his neck broken when of the Mules had gone for a head-on horn flip - and won.

"Probably. Probably. The young idiots tried to imitate the Kildar last year. I had over a dozen puncture wounds to take care of before the day was out. He shook his head ruefully. "Yes, Mist dear, I think we'll stay right here."

He leaned back into her chest as she rested against one of the corral's poles. "I'm sure we'll hear a call for a doctor soon enough. You did bring the new spray skin to try out if anyone tries to fire-walk again this year?"

"Yes, doctor. It's still in the cooling case at the aid station. Kara is taking care of all the minor wounds, blisters and cuts just fine." She allowed herself a smile. "Though I'm sure most of the, 'Oh look I have a nasty splinter!' cases are just because she's on duty today. Incidentally, is that why you had us start working at the Free Clinic in Alerrso three days a week?"

Arensky admitted, "You do bring them in, so I get my DNA samples. These people are just wonderful genetic anomalies! A closed society, very limited contact with outside, and rampant inbreeding - the mutations should all be detrimental after so long, yet they are not. Instead, genetically, they're probably healthier than ninety-nine percent of the population. It is a mystery, but one I'm sure I can solve. If only the Kildar would approve my budget!"

"Maybe you should have Kara or I ask him instead? After, all, we are trained in 'personal persuasion' methods as part of our hostess duties." The doctor didn't respond, already half asleep in his comfortable bower. Mist just smiled and brushed his remaining and unruly hair back into place. Odd he might be, but she was quite fond of the older man.

She watched them bring in the second bull and tease it until it was as angry as the first one. This should prove to be interesting.

===============================

"Go Two Brow! Show them how a Mule throws the AXE!"

He was the last of the Mules to try. The others had done well, but Tubri was determined to best them all.

He was another oddity amongst the Keldara. He was just under six feet tall, but he twice as wide as any of them across the shoulders. Already, he'd earned the team bonus points by killing the bull, even if it was an accident. He grinned and wound up, showing off to the spectators, then like a spring snapped forward.

The axes normally spun on their way towards the wooden target several meters away. Tubri's flew like a missile, barely arcing at all. It screamed into the target and through it, shattering the axe, the axe handle and the wooden target into a spray of wood and metal splinters.

"Oh. Crap." He looked around at the silent elders and his even more silent teammates.

"Don't worry, child," said the Elder. "It can be reforged, as it has been before. You shall help us. If you can swing a forge hammer like that, then perhaps we shall teach you the secrets of the axes." Visibly gathering himself, he continued. "But now, you are the winner, as no one has ever broken both the axe and the target at the same time."

He turned to the gathered team. "You, Mules, gather up all the wood, leather and bits of metal. All. Of. It. You will not go on to the next contest until I am assured that we have enough of Culscathach to be able to reforge it. Tubri, after the Festival, you shall go to the hills beyond the valley to gather the black sands and hard woods to make the charcoal for the reforging by yourself." He held up a restraining hand. "Do not think of this as a punishment. It has been a long, long time since we've had one with the build and mindset to be a master at the forge."

"Come to us when your duties allow you to do so."

There was a long silence and then the Mules all cheered their compatriot. If they couldn't each win the Ondah, they'd at least win one more of the Tests. They figured on winning the Test of the Bull, unless the Kildar tried to show off again, but he'd only watched and cheered on the others as was his place and offered praise and condolences where needed. Like a ghost he'd disappeared again after Tubri had killed the bull, laughing his ass off.

Mother Lenka had laughed and said, "Murphy is Loki in another guise," spitting into the fire being readied for that Test.

No Mule had mastered fire walking. Being so big, jumping far was difficult for them. So, they'd do a small jump for honor's sake and continue in the contest.

All except Savo, who at nearly seven feet tall could almost stride across the short end. A leap across the widest part shouldn't be too hard for him, if he hadn't been so overly muscled as to resemble the Incredible Hulk - comic books being a big hit with the Mules.

They made crude jokes about being tired from carrying everyone else's loads before doing the small jumps. Again, luck was with them and no one got burned. But it was no competition to those who had the newtech legs, like Oleg. He'd mastered the technique of landing in the middle of the bed of coals on his prosthetic, pushing off and landing safely on the far side of the pit. Team Oleg won that competition hands down.

Then, finally, came the caber toss for Team Mule.

This was Chief Adams' favorite event as it seemed to be the most unpredictable. So far, among other blunders, Padros, Team Padrek's sniper, tripped as he launched the caber and took a face slide through the mud almost as far as he'd tossed the log, just incidentally disqualifying himself.

Adams had spurted beer out of his nose so hard he'd laughed so hard, before apologizing to the Mother who'd just served him her House's brew.

To him, wasting beer, any beer, was a sin.

Wasting Keldara-brewed beer? Fires of Hell awaiting him sin.

Fortunately, she'd just laughed and filled his personal mug, a relic from a long-ago Oktoberfest in Germany he had few memories of. Speak of the devil. Vanner joined him. "What was all that about?"

"Team Padrek's sniper took a nosedive through the mud and almost gave his throw a challenge for distance."

"Damn. I miss all the fun. Heard about the bull too. Nice of them to donate the extra meat after tonight's feast to the refugees."

"Well, you're going to hate this even more."

He pointed at the Mules marching up to the Test of the Wood from the Test of Fire area.

"See Tubri? The one that looks like a dwarf?"

Vanner nodded.

"He's the one that broke the bull's neck. Just like I taught him," he added with noticeable pride. "He grabbed the horns, grounded it and stepped to one side."

Vanner smiled, "And a little inertia, too. Eh?"

"That too, that too. Oh, he also broke Culscathach in the test of the axe. Just decimated the target, the axe head, and the haft too. Center strike, as near as anyone can tell. Truth be told, it's pretty much just splinters now. Now, Tubri's gonna have to learn how to be a forgemaster in his spare time, along with his militia duties and farming work."

"Don't forget the new town."

Adams rolled his eyes.

"How could I? Every time they got the duty, they keep jabbering about blowing up another cliff face for building rock or moving a river to its old bed so they can get at the black sands deposited there." He looked around, conspiratorially. "If I didn't know better, I'd say Meller's looking at that sand as more than a source of good iron ore. I'd bet he's looking for gold."

Vanner started whistling innocently and reached for a mug of beer from a passing girl who gave him a gleaming smile. He almost returned it, with interest, before remembering that she was his wife's cousin. Grez'd be sure to hear about him flirting. Best not to. She was in Intel for a good reason. Probably had her own team watching him now.

"Okay, what's the shit-eating grin about?"

"Well... we may have seeded certain portions of the river with some gold dust, maybe a few nuggets. And we might just have let it slip in the bigger towns." At Adams' look, he continued. "It'll bring business to the five valleys. Besides, who's to say they won't really strike gold?"

"Uh-huh. And I can just guess who dreamed up this little scheme. Wouldn't be someone who knows all about deceit and financial finagling, would it? Hmm? Maybe to free up the budget for a few quarters? You turn a blind eye and your little project gets funded?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Anyway, where would the Mice get twenty-five kilos of gold dust? It's not like we had that stuff lying about, you know."

"Humph. With Mouse, you never know. Did we ever inventory the gold certificates we got from those assholes with the smallpox? Didn't think so. Two or three of those and some help from the Doc and I'm sure... Never mind. Here they come. This should be even better than Team Padrek."

The two held out their mugs for refills, grabbed a sweetened oat cake, and moved to stand next to the Elders who were to judge this event.

"So, think Tubri's gonna fuck something up this time?"

"I hope not, I'm just parked over there," Vanner replied. "I'm taking a quick break from running loads down to Valkyrie before we fly out to Tbilisi tonight."

"Ah, that's right. I remember being awake for that part of the meeting. Something about a convention and selling some more gizmos."

"Yep, and sort of a honeymoon for Grez too. She's never been to the US and DC in the spring. We're probably too late for the Sakura tree festival, but I wanted to visit the wall again."

Adams was instantly sobered. "Your father's name is there, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It'll be my way of introducing him to his daughter-in-law. Chief, you shoulda seen the fits they threw when they saw our load out - probably all the live ammo for the demonstrations. Oh, by the way, have your friends liked the toys we sent them?"

"Probably won't hear anything until it breaks, or they want more. If it works, the Teams like to keep it to themselves before others get their hands on it. Never fails, they change it, review it, change it again and totally fuck it up. Used to wish sometimes that we could do a little midnight visit on some of those fat-ass Senators. You know the ones, they're damn sure his way is the best and that his 'friends' can make the devices better than designed. Fuckers could screw up a nail."

"Know the type. When Grez wrote the contracts, she put in, right up top, a serious penalty clause. We're talking billions with a 'b', if they so much as change a line of code, or farm it out, or do any one of a dozen other no-nos. Plus, she's picky as hell with who actually gets the contracts."

"Can't they reverse engineer it?"

"Probably, but the ones we trust get all the plans they need to make 'em and the rights to sell them to the US government. We get a percentage of the gross. Not the net. And that, Chief, is one reason I married her." He took a long pull of his beer.

Vanner continued. "Gonna miss this, even if we're only going to be gone a week or so. But I just don't trust things to stay quiet too long around here. And I sure as hell can't leave Mouse unsupervised that long. Hey, Chief, want a job for the duration? Long hours, low pay, lots of frustration?"

"Like hell! I've got kids her age. No. Fucking. Way. She scares even Murphy. Talk about someone who thinks sideways, it's her. Why don't you just take her with?"

"Dunno if Mike would approve. Not the expense. She's made enough on her own to pay her own way, if she had to. Hell, she'd probably just hack into an airline and fly for free." The two shared a brief laugh at that; Mouse was known for her computer skills almost as much as her mischievous sense of humor.

"You know, some of the guys have taken to using her as their personal investment banker? She made a killing when gold all but tripled earlier this year. Dumped it right into oil futures and boom that rose too, sold at the peak and cashed in. Her Swiss bankers are very, very happy with her."

"Bet the little vixen has figured out how much our ops affect the world market," Adams muttered. "We had a weenie like that on the teams once. Smart as hell. Wrote a program to read the world news. He could tell you, four times out of five, when we'd be deployed. Then he rigged it to work bass-ackwards, trying to see if the market reacted to our actions. You know, Beltway Bandits dumping stocks or buying cheap. He played their game and made a metric fuck ton of money."

"He retire rich?"

"No, caught a round in Mogadishu. By the way, I didn't tell you that."

"No problem. You know my job. I keep secrets unless Mike needs to know about them."

"Anyways. He died fucking rich, and his will, well let's say some of the stipulations were a bit crazy."

"Crazy?"

"Yep, all of Teams One and Two got sent to Bangkok for a seven-day bender on seven man team rotations. Took almost four months to get all of us through there."

He took another pull of his beer.

"I'm gonna put money on Tubri there to fuck up again, even though Shota, by God, is his Sergeant now." They both shook their heads in wonder.

"E-HOSS. Whose idea was that?"

"Wasn't it yours? Didn't you say we needed a cavalry too?"

"I said Air Cav, I'm sure. Not the Mules of the Apocalypse."

"Maybe it was Mike's idea."

"Probably. Assboy-2 is always good for something to blame on when no one else is handy. Even if he is signing the paychecks. Speaking of money - I've got a gen-u-ine US twenty-dollar bill that says Tubri crosses the line, and another twenty that he gets the Bean tonight at the feast."

"Chief, you forget. I won't be here for the feast."

"You can trust me on that one, can't you?"

This time it was Vanner that committed the sin of snorting beer out his nose.

===============================

Most of the Mules still held to the old ways, throwing the wood just as they had in years past. Only a few had adopted the method taught them by McKenzie and the Kildar.

The rest of the squad had tossed their cabers the way they had learned it from their fathers and grandfathers. Even Tubri hadn't risked showing off here. Their task was for everyone to get a good throw and, more importantly, not get disqualified. They were only ten points behind Team Oleg in the overall standing, with just Shota to go. One good throw by Shota - who'd been training with McKenzie most of the winter - and they'd pull ahead.

Shota shouldered the Caber easily and eyed the line.

He spun the log in his hands easily trying to find its center of gravity as he'd been taught. Once he found its natural balance, he stopped, placing his left hand under that spot.

He walked up to the line, stopped, then turned around and walked eight careful paces back.

"Seven!" He announced and turned.

The crowd had grown during the day, as more and more were freed from their daily tasks. A large group of refugees stood back a ways, separate from the Keldara. They weren't sure if they were welcome, but these were the men who'd saved them. Watching and cheering them from a distance was something they could do without intruding much. Maybe they'd be invited to the feast later.

More came to see what Tubri would do at this test. Some already were calling for Mother Lenka to check the boy for markings of the Trickster, Loki. Others said he was just unlucky, one of Murphy's favorites.

How wrong they all were.

Loki. Murphy. Ill luck. Whatever you called it had something else planned and it was a doozy.

===============================

Sure of himself, Shota shouldered the huge log just as McKenzie had trained him over the winter. His right hand, his strong arm, replaced his left. He wasn't sure it was correct, but it felt right. He could use the left to guide his throw over his shoulder.

Unlike Mike and all the others who'd tried the throw before, Shota leaned forward to the point that the caber almost started to fall forward and then ran as if catching up to it.

"Oh, clever. I see the Sergeant has been taking some lessons in physics from someone."

"Physics? Shota? Naah, just a Bigger Hammer."

"Well, he does get the job done. And he's turning."

Shota saw the line and drove his left foot deep into the turf point first. He wasn't about to twist an ankle like he did the first time he'd tried this method. McKenzie called it the 'Berserker Avalanche'. All that Shota knew was that the log already wanted to fall the way he was going, and his twist and throw would just add to its wanting to go that way.

It would have, had he kept his left hand under the log as he'd been taught.

It would have, had the log not twisted as he did and delayed the throwing motion just a second.

The caber flew higher than any other. Ever.

Unfortunately, it flew straight up.

Then gravity took over.

Shota turned and faced the crowd, raising two huge meaty fists in victory. Never had he thrown the caber with so much force, never had it left his hands so fast and freely. It hadn't even touched his shoulder.

"MULES RULE!" he yelled to the gasping crowd.

"Oh, fuck," said Vanner.

"Holy Shit," said Adams.

"Min Gud!" cried Kara, lapsing into her native Swedish. The aid station was close enough to let her witness the log's trajectory. She grabbed her EMT pack and radio before she realized what she was doing.

The log rose, inverted, and came straight back down.

Directly at Shota, unaware, showing off for the crowd below. Two of his men, faster on the uptake than the other Mules, started to charge across the grounds, knowing instinctively they'd be too late. They both missed Shota as the log thunked down with full force on the very top of his head.

He looked very, very confused for a few seconds, then down at his men laying at his feet and the useless caber next to them. It was as if he had no idea why he was there, who they were, or what had hurt him so much.

Everyone else had expected him to be smashed down into the mud.

Dead on impact.

But Shota wasn't built like most men. His neck muscles had muscles of their own. Muscles that made oxen jealous. He was known to have a hard head ever since his childhood, stories which would be told and retold in the coming days. Stories that would be important in ways nobody realized.

Shota glared. "OW! FUCK!"

Chief Adams swallowed his heart. "Guess we're going to need a new caber."

Everyone around him started to laugh and chuckle as it seemed Shota had once again survived the unsurvivable. Bad move. Shota heard them and, in his confusion, thought they were laughing at him.

He raised an immense fist and started to charge at the Chief.

"Oh, shit!"

"Damned straight he's coming for you," yelled Vanner, legs already pumping. "Run, you dumb SEAL!"

Shota took two more steps, face growing redder in rage and gritting his teeth, a bloody froth forming on his lips. His eyes looked like death itself. Shota raised both fists just steps away from the Chief, showed everyone the whites of his eyes, gave a childlike whimper and crumpled to the ground as if suddenly deflated.

The cry for "Medic!" woke Doctor Arensky from his nap.

"What?"

"Kara says one of the Mules took the log to the head. Straight up, straight down. Not sure which. Definitely neck and head trauma."

"There goes my day off. Fine. Fine. You go help her stabilize the patient. I'll cage a ride to the clinic, get Valkyrie up here. I think we'll need her." He meant the auto-doc installed in the Hind, a truly amazing piece of equipment. Once strapped on, it could monitor a patient's vitals, begin CPR, and even shock a heart back to beating.

He scampered off much faster than anyone his age should have been able, jumped into a SUV, and was babbling into the radio almost as soon as he shut the door. Having access to an actual doctor and a full library of surgical knowledge, as well as every soldier's personal medical file had proven to be a life saver more than once in the past year.

===============================

"Valkyrie is loaded and waiting passengers for Tbilisi International. Tell the Vanners I'm ready when they are. Their samples and demos are packed inside. The HE's packed up really carefully. All marked just like Uncle Sam wanted. Advise Chatham Air of our updated ETA once you've located the rest of the cargo. And let me know, are they coming down to the airfield or will they be expecting a front door pick-up?"

Naida laughed. "Negative, Valkyrie. ETA should be one zero minutes, repeat one zero. Break. Make for -"

Wherever she was to make for was lost, as the loud warble of the emergency channel overrode her normal comm channel.

"Valkyrie! Valkyrie! We have a downed warrior. This is Doctor Arensky. I'm enroute to clinic. ETA is five minutes. We need to get him to Tbilisi fast. I just hope you'll be able to land, this time."

That made Tamara smile. Twice in the last year she'd had to circle the hospital until the owners of the cars - and one bright yellow Humvee - came out and moved their vehicles so she could land. The top of the garage was clearly marked for helicopters only, but it was so open and the perfect place for Important People to safely park their new toys. Luckily those two times had been with a pregnant woman and one not so lucky spotter with a very badly broken leg, not a critically or mortally wounded Mountain Tiger.

"Katrina - get your ass off the helo. Get Kacey and her crew-chief over here ASAP, then have the ground crew throw the Auto-Doc stabilization unit into the cargo area. Finally, tell Chief D'Allaird to dump his latest bunny out of bed." She didn't mind D'Allaird bedding anyone he could manage, but if he got one pregnant, he was going to get a hell of a shotgun wedding. Literally.

"But you promised me!" whined Katrina. "I did the load up perfectly!"

"It's a load out, and when you're on my bird, it's 'Yes Captain' or 'Yes Ma'am'. Got it?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Now move. Seconds count. We got someone seriously fucked up at the festival."

"Who?" There was real fear in Katrina's voice. Mike had said he was going down to the festival to observe things again, but if he got challenged his nature wouldn't let him back down and he might have pushed his luck...

"Kat! Move your tiny ass, now!"

"You're going to need two people to hold that unit on the load as you fly to the festival, and I just have to know."

The pleading in her voice sounded so sincere Tamara couldn't deny her. Katrina's weight wouldn't matter for the short hop, and dumping her with the cargo? Well, if she was going to crew, she was going to have to learn to combat unload if she ever went into a hot zone.

Less than three minutes later she was up in the air and Katrina and her normal crew-chief were moving gear to make room for the stabilization unit and linking up to the clinic's computers.

"Valkyrie to Base One. ETA to clinic, two minutes. Please advise medics to have patient ready. I'm going to have to dump the Vanner's load on-site. Suggest sending additional guards as Katrina will be there alone with all those extra visitors we have watching the festivities."

"Valkyrie, Base One. Obrekta here. Vanners are at Festival. Not in contact. Will send ready team to secure load and locate the Kildar. Once patient is secure and uplink ready I'll patch you and the Doctor through to Tbilisi Hospital. They've been advised of the nature of the emergency, but not the particulars."

"Don't have that myself. Please advise Tbilisi, I'll be coming in hot and fast, patient will likely be critical, and I won't wait for them to move their luxury cars this time. I'm loaded and will be clearing all obstacles, with prejudice. If they complain, tell them to take it up with the Kildar. Personally. They can try to bill me."

She switched channels.

"How's the load? She ready for a slip shot, Chief?"

"Roger, Tammy. Load secure. We got green lights on the unit too. Starting uplink with clinic for status check now. Good signal."

"You're the best Naida." She swerved and avoided a stand of beech trees and the new powerlines coming down from the dam, full throttle, following the main road back to where they'd dump the load and pick up their patient. "Hang on, kicking the tires and lighting the fires."

Valkyrie leapt forward, flying nap of the earth and avoiding the ever-growing infrastructure of Alerrso and the Valley.

Lights. Warning lights. Another thing to bring up in the next staff meeting.

"Naida, remind me when we get back, to take the Kildar for an overflight during the day and then one at night. Got a few points I need to make with him."

"I hope one of them is warning lights on the power-line poles and the radio-repeaters. We just passed one on the left with about three feet to spare."

"A miss by an inch is as good as a mile, Chief. ETA fifty seconds. Kat, you're going out with the load and we're not touching down at that spot. We'll be moving up the road about three hundred meters closer to the Festival, where the vehicle ramp is located. Your job is to guard that gear with your life. Only the Vanners or the Tigers get to touch it. Once down, go hot on your SMG. You're allowed one warning shot. After that, if they try to rush you, take them down like the Chief taught you. You'll have help shortly, so I don't think it will be a problem. I think Team Padrek just took over duty so they can cycle the other duty squads through the Tests after we clear out."

"Valkyrie, Base One. Kildar enroute to Cave. He was busy. With Anastasia. He's been advised and will be a few minutes. He said, 'If they have anything on that roof blocking your landing, blow it the fuck away'."

"Roger, Base One. Understood. Might just take out that Humvee anyway."

"Kildar agrees, he's busy changing and OH MY! Base One out for a few minutes. Out."

She switched back to her intercom channel. "Ten seconds. Hang on Katrina, this is gonna be a rush."

"Ready." She sounded nervous.

"Open the door."

"DOOR OPEN" Kat and Naida yelled through the sudden wind.

Katrina gasped as she saw a car pass just below her going the other way, then the Hind-J tipped sideways and slewed. The Chief kicked the last of the quick-release catches and Katrina and the load slid out as one and fell a good ten feet to the ground still moving sideways at about twenty kilometers per hour.

"Oh, fuck..."

She'd forgotten to tell Kat to unhook her comm cable. Well, it was designed to break before the wearer's neck did, so all she'd have is a sore neck to go along with the bruises on her ass and legs.

"LOAD OUT. SECURING DOOR." Abruptly the noise of the wind cut out. "I see flares four points to our port side, Captain."

"It's Tammy again, unless we got trainees and passengers aboard."

"Roger that."

A few moments later, they were at the clinic.

"DOOR OPENING!" The rush of the wind and sound of the blades cut off any further attempts at communication with her chief.

"Base One, Valkyrie. On the ground awaiting patient transfer. Confirm link to a real trauma doctor in Tbilisi, and if you can't get one who's sober, get one of the new doctors. I. Am. Not. Going. To. Lose. A. Patient. Over."

"Roger, Valkyrie."

===============================

In less than thirty seconds six Keldara carried a huge man strapped to a back board. She also noted that the man had a full neck brace.

Second note to self. Get NFL level trauma gear. The men here were just that big. Off the shelf stuff just wouldn't work.

Kira and Chief Adams were holding a reddening bandage to the patient's head.

Tammy double checked her status board and then reached down between her legs and chambered a single round into the autofeeder. Only problem was, it was a retrofit and its initial load had to be done manually. The clip held twenty-five rounds, so if she had to use more - she was truly fucked if Kacey and her Dragon weren't nearby. But the Kildar had guaranteed that even a T-62 would know it had been kissed if she shot it in the ass with that gun. A slow mover or jet circling into her sights? TOAST!

"Captain. Patient loaded and secured. EMTs Mist and Kara along for ride. Shouldn't affect the fuel calc either way. We might need to make more runs, though. I heard Savo saying the Festival's been cursed by Loki; that worries me, as well."

"It's just Murphy at work. Get the ladies comms and secured and get that patient into the bubble. Let me know when he's safely hooked up and we'll grab sky."

"The Nannies say sixty seconds."

"Roger Naida."

"Base One, Valkyrie. Heading to hospital, Tbilisi in five zero seconds. Give me weather update and sat and radar links with airport please."

"Stand-by for feed on channel eleven, Valkyrie."

"Roger. Patch me through to the Cave."

"Cave, Kseniya."

"Kseniya, do me a favor? Make damn sure Vanner's little toys are cycled down. I swear, I saw them tracking me last week."

"They're not loaded, Val -"

"I don't give a fuck if they weren't loaded! They will be off, do you understand me? Or do you want to clean my seat next time and do my laundry?"

Silence was the only reply.

"Valkyrie, Kildar here. Get him there in one piece. And don't take any shit."

"Gotcha, Kildar. Valkyrie Air en route."

"Goddess! Tammy, it's Shota!"

"Noticed he was a big one."

"So did the Nannies as they cut his clothes off. I had no idea..."

"Grabbing sky! Hang on!"

===============================

Doctor Arensky's fingers flew across the keyboard. He called up the particulars, inputted the data coming from the rapidly departing Valkyrie, and sent it on to the Tbilisi State University Republican Clinical Hospital. Though there were others in the city, this one had received a large grant from USTDA expressly for upgrading to American standards. What the USTDA didn't know was that the Kildar had quietly tripled the grant, allowing a massive upgrade of the staff, as well.

Instead of importing two American specialists, Arensky had gone to India and hired a dozen PA's and four Internists, all fully trained on the most recent advances. Once back in Tbilisi, the Kildar had arranged for an entire apartment building to be turned over to them and their families for the duration of their contracts. Additionally, they'd all received basic self-defense training at the Valley. None had been harassed more than once.

Only one incident needed action from the Kildar.

The IMF chief from France, ostensibly on his annual inspection tour, but actually shopping for young girls for fun, maybe a mistress, made a serious mistake: he tried to grab one of the PA's using his bodyguards. He found out what happens to kidnappers and sex-slave traders, be they sellers or end users.

All the IMF got was a letter from an obscure office of the US government called OSOL, stating that they would need to replace the now-missing official. A few pictures of the young girls in his hotel room being adjusted and prepared for shipment back to France had put paid to any official investigation. Two DGSE agents arrived shortly after. They were shown the body and permitted to question the still breathing bodyguards. After the interrogation, the DGSE requested side arms and shot the bodyguards between the eyes themselves.

A shame that the IMF regional chief hadn't respected the road conditions, they lamented officially.

A real crying shame.

"Valkyrie, Arensky here. Go with List B. If that doesn't work, go with list C from point seven on. After that load up trauma pack four and five into the feeder and..."

===============================

"Republican Clinical, this is Valkyrie. We are Angel Flight status, declaring condition Critical. Repeat, this is an Angel Flight. ETA One Five minutes. Make sure that dammed heliport is clear, or I will fucking well clear it myself, you got me? Transferring to EMT."

"Mist here. EMT on duty. Patient status follows: blunt force trauma to head and neck. Suspect internal and possible cervical damage as well. Patient is unresponsive to all external stimuli."

"Roger, Angel Flight. We have full data feed on patient. Before we start scanning him, does the patient have any shrapnel or metal implants we should know about?"

Kara shook her head in the negative.

"Negative Tbilisi. No known foreign bodies detected on previous physicals or X-rays. Ah, be advised this is a very big man. You'll need to get some additional attendants to help us move him down to the Trauma Center. Wait one." A loud beeping started, silenced with a slap of a switch. "Patient's respiration has ceased; going to mechanical support at this time. Out!"

"And Tbilisi Trauma?" Tamara spoke up.

"Yes, Angel Flight?"

"This is one of the Kildar's favorites. He said, and I quote, 'God watches over children, fools and idiots, but if the hospital fucks this up, they'll be explaining to God. Personally.' Got that?"

"Clear, Angel Flight."

"One more question. Who drives the yellow Humvee?"

"Ah, that would be the hospital administrator."

"You're sure?"

"Positive, why?"

"Oh, no particular reason. But you might want to make sure he's opened the pharmaceutical locker and gotten out the good stuff before we arrive, if you get my meaning."

She could hear the grin through the radio. The Administrator, while capable, was not well-loved. "Oh, that is mean, Angel Flight."

"Tbilisi Trauma, you know that Valkyries didn't only rescue the souls of fallen warriors. They were also the choosers of the slain."

"Well that is an ugly yellow..."

===============================

"How the hell did he live through that, Chief?" Meller asked Adams.

"We don't know if he will; Murphy sure had his fun with Shota today. But he must have had someone else looking over him." The Chief had seen plenty of friends injured and dead in his years on the Teams, but it still affected him the same way.

"I think I'll do my praying with a few beers. I've seen enough of these contests already. Unless you're participating?"

"Not this year."

"Let's get stinkers then."

"Helluva plan, Don."

"Should we get Mike in on this?"

"No, he's got problems of his own. Maybe we should just get plastered down here."

"Yeah. I want to know how the big guy is doing but I don't, you know?"

"Yep." He grabbed a bucket of beer from a passing girl and smiled. "We're having our own contest now. Keep bringing buckets and food until one of us falls over."

"Whatever the Kildar's friends require. It shall be done."

"Gawd I love this place." The two then started a serious drinking binge. Everyone handles trauma their own way.

As for the E-HOSS, they proudly finished the challenges they had already begun before excusing themselves from the Test of Man. They went to the caravanserai, to hear any reports of their leader and friend. That they were brought the Kildar's choice cuts from the oxen was barely noted, they ate mechanically.

Hungry. Food. So - eat.

None would be named Ondah. The omission of the Test of Man weighed heavily in that decision, the final hand-to-hand combat. Some would say that Savo would have beaten Oleg, but that would have to wait for next year.

This year, though, they made history. They ended up tied with Team Oleg as the winning team, earning their place in the histories. But it was the present that weighed heaviest on their minds. They stayed awake all night and into the next day, awaiting word, until they were ordered to bed down. Even then they didn't go far from the Cave, displacing the ready squad with brute force and then collapsing on whatever surface they could find.

===============================

"So, what you're telling me, Doc, is he's gonna live?" Mike asked through the phone. He was talking with Dr. Aisharya Kapoor, the most senior doctor he'd imported, because the data on the computer barely made sense to him. Mostly it was wavy lines, all steady. He supposed there was a proper name for them, but he didn't know it.

"He's stabilized, but comatose. He's got major neurological trauma we simply can't treat here. I managed to insert shunts to relieve the pressure, but we don't have a neurosurgeon capable of handling the damage. We worked on him for the last two hours. We were very impressed with EMTs and Angel Flight staff." The clearly Indian voice spoke back to him in perfect English.

"I'll let them know." A quick thought and he motioned to Grez for a pen and paper, scribbled something down and handed it back. She read it and her eyebrows rose. She ran all the way back to the Cave from the Ready Room to make a call

"You may not be able to fix the problem, but I have friends that can. Not here, in the US. I already have a plane laid in for a flight, so it'd be no trouble at all to carry another passenger and doctor."

"Sir, today's trauma isn't the only problem."

"What else?"

"The patient also shows sign of similar trauma sometime in his youth. Was this young man a farmer by chance before his current occupation? Worked with horses, or cattle?"

"Yes."

"A kick to the head. That might explain it."

"Explain what?"

"He's got a damaged section of his skull, between the frontal and parietal lobes - the parts that control speech and reasoning, among other functions. It's clearly calcified, showing the age of the damage, and the skull seems to have been bored into, perhaps to relieve the pressure in a primitive way. This is somewhat indelicate, but I must ask: was this patient perhaps a bit slow?"

"Yes, but he was a pure genius with ballistics, especially rocketry."

"That would be controlled by the parietal and occipital lobes, away from the original damage. He could see and process that information on almost an instinctive level, using those parts, as our ancient, predatory ancestors did. Understand?"

"Somewhat. Go on."

"Well, the damage, at such a young age, would have forced him to use other, undamaged parts of his brain for tasks normally handled by those two lobes. It would be similar to losing your dominant and learning to write with the other - possible, but it would not have the same skill. So too with his reasoning, his mathematical abilities - a whole host of issues, in fact."

"An old injury made him a savant of sorts? That explains a lot. Perhaps the US doctors can repair that, too?"

"I'm afraid not. At this late date, all they can do is remove the scar tissue and damaged bone, perhaps lessen the pressure in the area. But the damage to the neurons? Mister Kildar, once a brain cell dies, it doesn't come back. With this amount of damage, even attempting higher cognitive functions must be painful. Frankly, I'm surprised that the shock of combat and explosions hadn't knocked anything else lose in that region. In your vernacular, he was a dead man walking."

"Just Kildar, please."

"Very well, Kildar. As I was saying, I am surprised he survived this long. especially in such rough conditions."

"It seems you've kept my man alive. Long enough that we can get him the care he needs."

"It is nothing but my duty." She snorted. "You may wish to tell your pilot to release the administrator from the morgue, though. Seems he was a little upset about losing his new car."

Mike shrugged. "I warned that bastard. I think I need to come have a look at the books, the real books."

"That may be... Difficult. He keeps them locked in a safe, in his office."

"Don't worry doctor. I know just the Mouse for the job. In any case - how long do you need to prepare Shota for flight?"

"Two, perhaps three hours to ensure he's stable."

"Do you have your passport, Doctor Kapoor?"

"Yes, but do you want me to leave this hospital in the Administrator's hands? He is afraid of me, I believe." He could hear her dimple. "A broken finger can be most instructive, don't you think?"

"Glad the training came in handy."

"As to flying to the US right now? Completely out of the question, as I have other patients that need my care." He heard the regret in her voice. "Even though I would certainly appreciate a quick trip to the US, your EMTs will be sufficient to handle the patient. Simply have the American hospital contact me so I can give them the information."

That stopped Mike cold. How could he explain that he was sending Shota to a hospital that didn't officially exist?

"Doc, I gotta make some calls. I've been waiting on my staff to get me through to the US. It's just dawn over there, so I'm going to have to wake some folks up."

"I'll get to work and let your staff know they are free to prep for movement and they can let the administrator go for now. Unless you have other plans for him?"

"No, but if you can give him something to make him, ah, happy?"

"I understand. If there are any problems, I'll be back in touch."

"Doc, you just earned yourself a bonus."

"Six hours of sleep and a cheeseburger would be enough payment. I'm well paid already, and such gifts wouldn't be proper. Maybe some hypo-allergenic toys for the Pediatric wing?"

"A cheeseburger?"

"Not all Indians are Hindu, Kildar."

"Done and done. Ever had a Fatburger?"

"Do not tease me. I haven't eaten all day."

"Out here. Call you back in an hour or so."

===============================

"OSOL, Lieutenant Stillwater, how may I help you sir or ma'am?"

"Go Scramble."

"Scrambled. Go ahead."

"This is the Kildar. Is Colonel Pierson in?"

"Yes, but he's in the ready room. We have a situation. Not in your backyard, not this time."

"Right. Hmm. I need to speak to someone about the hospital that isn't. I have a patient that needs their special care."

"That is definitely over my pay grade. I think I can interrupt the meeting for a few minutes. Please hold."

Someone had changed OSOL's hold muzak. This time it was playing a selection from Pink Floyd: The Wall, not a choice anyone in the government would normally make. If he hadn't known better, he'd have looked straight at Mouse as the source.

Speak of the devil, Mouse popped out of the wall. Well, not exactly out of the wall, but the panel that hid the access to the third level of the basements. He'd initially made it off limits to everyone, yet somehow the Mice had made it their home. Like mice, they preferred to be unseen. But Mouse was a different kind of mouse, these days.

Maybe it was a reaction to Albania – that was stressful enough for him, let alone a barely-teen girl – or perhaps it was just her teenage hormones finally kicking in. Or the internet. That could be it, too. Or the harem. Or – well, in any case, she was changed, a bit. Still brilliant, of course, still the best hacker and cracker in the 'serai, but...

Creata was all but bouncing out of her glitter sneakers and pink striped socks. So, it was anime/goth this week. Okay. It was better than her try at the anime/Idol look. Catya and Elena could pull it off, as they had the bodies for it, but Creata had yet to bloom, so the Lolita-pink-goth look worked for her. At least she'd forgone the pink wig. For now.

"I'm kinda busy now Mouse."

"I know. I know. But this is important!" Bounce bounce bounce.

Oh, crap.

"What?"

For just a moment, she looked the little girl she still, essentially, was. "I might have overheard the first call Grez made to JSOC to try to get them to open up the hospital for Shota."

"And?" He reminded himself to relax. Yelling didn't help, not with Mouse. It was her job to hear everything, but sometimes it just purely annoyed him. "Blue Skies" started playing and he felt himself calm down a bit more. Good tunes.

"They're not gonna give you permission. I already know." Typical teenage know-it-all.

"We'll see. I got Pierson coming online here in a few minutes."

"Still. Won't."

"You're sure?" he asked with just a hint of menace.

"Please, Kildar. I stay out of OSOL computers because you told me so, but I have friends there too. We share code. Vanner set it up. But that's BORING!" Bounce bounce. Sigh.

"Explain." He'd give her until Pierson got on the line and then he'd either call Vanner down or put her over his knee. Again. Shota's future, hell, his life, was on the line; he didn't have time for the typical teenage 'I have a secret you don't know', bullshit right now. "Fast and to the point."

"Okay." At least the bouncing stopped. "They are prepping for a new program . Supersoldier. Not Captain America stuff, but more like cybernetics and bio-tech stuff. Real live cyberpunk. They are getting ready for human testing really really soon."

"And this affects us how?"

"THIS! THIS is our - er, I mean Shota's ticket into the program, get him fixed up, get the old injury taken care of too."

How could a girl know so much that went on in the house with just two ears? Then he remembered that there were four of the troublemakers in total.

"Explain."

"PDA, PDA - gimme!" Bounce bounce bounce.

He handed her the device. She inserted a thumb drive and pressed the screen faster than he could follow. She waited a few seconds, aimed the device at the computer displaying the medical data, pressed another button and waited for something to upload. Tap tap tap and she bounced again. Several times in fact.

"Here look," she said, showing him the PDA screen. "This will fix him, make him better. He can be their first field trial. Basic assist CPU for damaged areas, flash memory blanks to fill in for damaged brain tissue and upload of data. Some bone and muscle injections. Some eyesight upgrades, different from Katya's. Won't need to put in an uplink as he can link to his helmet and personal comm unit directly and send what he sees that way via the assist CPUs."

"HUH?" He leaned forward after a glance at the stuff on the screen. It was similar to when he'd taken Katya shopping for her upgrades. But these were a totally different level. Nothing on the list looked lethal on its own; they all had carbon-nano in the name somewhere; and, sure enough, there was the 'Assist Chip and CPU for brain trauma victims'.

For once Mike was flabbergasted. One, she had hacked JSOC. Two, she had hacked into a super-secret, probably ULTRA-level upgrade program. Three - but she was still talking.

"Shota, stronger, faster, smarter than ever before. If he must, he can pay for it himself." She handed him a slip of paper. It was a statement from a Swiss bank and had Shota's name at the top of the printout. Okay, that was a lot of fucking money.

"Have you been playing with the SEC computers again, Mouse?" She paled.

"Noooo." The bouncing stopped. Her hands covered her small ass protectively.

"Well how does Shota manage to have this much money? Over three million US?"

"Three point five eight six and change as of this morning's Euro market. I got about the same and the rest of the Mules should have as much as a squad too."

"How the hell -"

"Tech bonuses from US, paid in gold, not dollars." She ticked off on her fingers. "The gold certificates from the ambush, before the battle in the Pankisi Gorge."

"I thought they were all destroyed."

She had the decency to blush. "Many were, but Shota and a few others kept their loads. No one told them not to!" she said defensively. "They turned in the cash and bearer bonds. You explained what those were. But gold certificates? Those are all shiny and look pretty." Her voice turned to a whisper. "I had to make Tubri undecorate his Mom's room. He'd used them as wallpaper. Over a million Euros." Giggle. "At least he only used flour paste and so recovery was as easy as using a steam cleaner." Bounce bounce. "In total, we ended up with about two point five million euros in gold."

Mike went cross-eyed. Looked down at the cost assay for the test program. If he offered to pay for half, and Uncle Sam swallowed the hospital and surgical costs, ate the materials development as part of the trial cost... It was still going to cost Shota most of his savings. But, hell, Shota'd been lucky so far. Why not?

That still left Mouse.

"Young lady, when I find the time -"

Thump.

Thump.

Two bags launched themselves from behind the wall panel before it closed again.

Luggage.

He looked at the wide, innocent eyes of Mouse.

"NO! You are not going!"

"Bet you a hundred Euro I can change your mind." She waved another thumb drive I the air.

"Fuck me."

"Kildar! I'm not old enough yet! And you have the Harem!"

Sigh.

Giggle.

Double fuck. Sideways.

"Speak." Dragonforce started to rage through the phone. Great, either OSOL knew his biometrics and programmed the muzak to respond to each caller, or someone shared his tastes. Whatever. He the speaker button to better enjoy it. Holding the handset while dealing with the teenage infiltration and safecracking specialist was mind numbing.

"What we have is just the profits from my programs and using the time zones to our advantage here. We sit right between two major trading points, right? London and Hong Kong? Everyone forgets about Dubai. And their foreign exchange operates on Greenwich Mean Time. So, a little computer time travel, and we can sell before we buy, sell again, buy again, on and on and on!" Bounce bounce.

"Of course, here we know what's going on in the world politically. I promised not to make any major moves off that information, but not off the impact footprints. So, if oil prices go up, I hit plastics and stuff made from oil instead. I kept my word." Bounce bounce.

Head slap. Have to be more explicit with her. A damned sight more explicit.

"That doesn't explain how you think you're going with."

"Well in part it does. I'm paying my own way. As long as I'm on Keldara business, I've got my parents' permission. I'll be with two chaperones and, most of all -" She handed a second thumb drive to Mike. He called up the only file and watched the text and memos flow by. SON OF A BITCH!

"Third, that fast unload knocked something loose, the Vanners only have two days in DC before the convention in Virginia, they really want to see the Sakura Festival, they're so Kawaii when they talk about it like first lovers again." She sighed like only a teenager could. It was very well practiced and not at all Mouse-like. She'd definitely been taking acting lessons, most likely Catrina and Elena, her team's social engineers.

"So I can spend the time fixing stuff and making sure it's tested okay, my team put so much time into making it in the first place and this is our only chance to impress folks and show that we can develop and make high tech stuff over here in Georgia too, I'm so sure of it that I talked the Mules into investing half of their savings each into development of an industrial slash tech park over at the five valleys, we want to do it without the President, ours, not yours, poking his fingers in the deal and fucking it up but if he does if you say so I'll empty his secret accounts faster than you can blink your eyes and redirect the funds into the highway program making ours better too, and I want to buy some dirt bikes for my team too, cool ones, Chief Adams said he knew someone that could hook us up, but we had to bring his Hog back here." She finally stopped for a breath.

"Why does he want a pig? Pigs we got. Plenty of farms out there." She pointed out and up. Mike's eyes crossed again. The Chief on his Harley, on these roads? Drunk? Not a good idea. But the thought of him riding a war-pig made him chuckle.

"I know. Silly isn't it? Riding a hog for fun. You Americans have some really weird ideas sometimes."

Now his ribs were hurting. He held up one hand and gasped. Caught his breath.

Okay, still on hold. Must be a deep-in-the-shit national security meeting going on. He'd wait though.

"Mouse, for all your smarts, you can be dumb sometimes. You've been reading up on bikes, right? I'm guessing, you've been hitting Japanese and Sport sites?" Nod. "Okay, that explains it. A Hawg is a nickname for a big motorcycle. Comes from road-hog. Hogging the road. Bikers like to ride in the middle of the road."

"OH!" She blushed. "But the Chief, he'd look so cute riding a real hog. Now I have to rewrite that email to his ex-wife and change my bid, now that I know it's a bike."

"She's selling it? Oh, wait till Chief hears this." Mike grinned evilly. "Don't you tell him. This one's mine. And I won't tell anyone about the other hog thing."

"Deal."

"Now continue. Slower."

"One, I need to make sure the demo is a success to get investors for the area and sell our devices to the government, or at least company that can do that for us and bankroll us to make them here. Two, the Chief's bike, but that's minor. Three. That." She pointed at the PDA and the memos. "We don't want to get Shota back, just to have them able to control him and spy on him. Or worse another president decide you are no longer necessary and make him go Manchurian on you."

"What makes you think -"

"Four. They already have a Manchurian problem. Where do you think I got the idea?" She held up a third thumb drive, this one jet black with a pair of crossed lightning bolts etched across its surface and a death's head superimposed over them. It had a pull tab, which looked suspiciously like a self-destruct.

Sigh.

"Who is it?"

"All the data's on there, including the program they used on his satellite TV to reprogram him. I've tracked at least a half dozen other high-ranking government officials that have had service from the same service. I used local detective agencies where possible, brute force hacking when that failed. Took me a whole two weeks to get this together. I was going to give it to you as a birthday present, but now... well now it's more important."

"You can say that again." Mike's hand shot up stopping Mouse before she could do just that. "They could make Shota a puppet?"

"Uh-huh. A Pinocchio." She held her hands and arms up at an angle. "And we'd never know it until too late, and him in E-HOSS. Well, does BOOM mean anything?"

"Yeah I get it. So where do you come in?"

"This." She held up an ugly gnome-like doll he'd seen around and pulled a string. It made some noises and giggles in a rusty childlike voice.

"I modified it."

"Of course you did."

"Through it I can link to Shota once he's in ICU. They can even put it through decon, all that will do is make it stop talking. No loss there, it'll still charge the capacitors. As long as I'm nearby I can monitor whatever they upload into him and change it at machine code level."

"What about failsafes? I'm sure they'll be expecting a response if they ping it."

"It's first generation, it'll be buggy as hell." She shrugged. "I can spoof that easily once he's back here and prevent them from uploading anything bad or giving him orders against his or your will. If anyone does try, we can slam it back in their face with solid proof too via OSOL and -" holding the death head thumb drive, " - This will make a lot of people happy and owe us big time."

"That it will. But how will you explain being in the facility yourself?"

"Oh. I have a few ideas."

"Oh, Hell. Do I want to ask?"

"Probably not," she admitted. "But think of it this way: I'll have a lot less money to play with for a while. Wouldn't that make you feel better?"

"Fine." Bounce bounce bounce. "I'd say shag ass and get packed, but you're ready to go, aren't you? I warn you, nothing like Katya has or I'll drag you back and have them tear it out without anesthesia."

"No, Kildar. Just some things to make my job easier that's all. And something to protect me. Nothing lethal. I saw that stuff. Who wants sub-dermal claws - that's just gross and the blood? Mine? Eww. Thank you, not." Full teenage mode again. Sigh.

"Kildar?"

"Yeah?"

"You might want to get someone to go relieve Katrina and the Padrek Team on the Road soon as I get down there to work on repacking and checking the gear. They've been down there all day and I think I'm the only one that's remembered."

Oh fuck.

"Pierson, what's the emergency Mike?"

Holding his hand over the mic, he said, "Go Mouse, tell the Vanners to get to the meet, get someone in the Cave to get a relief team to the guards once you and the Vanners are on site."

"Sorry, housekeeping stuff." He snapped his fingers for the PDA. She pulled the thumb drives from it and put them into her breast pocket.

"First, had a major casualty here during the festival. Shota. Caber toss. Straight up. Straight down."

"He lived?"

"He's alive. But likely comatose until he can get fixed. That's where you and a certain hospital come in. Grez is on with JSOC trying to get a bed for him there. Odds are they are going to tell her no."

"Yeah, zero chance."

"Well, we're going to change their minds. I hope you're sitting down, because this may affect OSOL once the witch hunts end. Fact is they are the only ones that can fix him and bring him back to normal. I know they can. And here's why I know. One of my operatives, doing research on her own initiative..."

===============================

"I gotta pee. I'm cold too."

"Suck it up Katrina or use the bushes. We've told you over and over. You've done it before."

"But you guys are around. It's not the same."

"It's dark, we won't be able to see anything."

"Liars! You have NODs!"

"Well that's true...but who'd want to watch you pee? Wee one?"

"I think we have her new nickname boys."

Katrina shot the ground between his legs, missing his crotch by millimeters.

"Whose nickname? Pee-boy?"

She finally relented when they took off their NODs and hit the bushes. By the time she crawled out of the bushes a car was pulling up, one of the duty SUV's. The Vanners got out with Mouse Well, someone had to fix this mess and it wasn't going to be her. She'd been stuck here smelling the roasting meat for nearly the whole day. She was famished.

As the passengers got out, Katrina jumped in next to the driver and nudged him with her pistol. "To the festival and don't stop until we're at the roasting pits. I'm starving and thirsty."

"What about them?"

Nudge.

"What about them?"

"Good night for a walk isn't it?" he said as he turned down the ramp and headed towards the feeding area. Roasted ox or steer. Better than duty rations.

"Hey, where's she going with our driver?"

"I think you pissed her off, Pee-boy."

"Yeah, just be glad she's a good shot and missed on purpose."

"Start walking, it's a long walk up the hill."

"I hope they bring us some of that meat. Been smelling it all day and it's driving me nuts."

"Shut up, Pee-boy."

LASKO AND THE TIGER
The Valley

Ten Months Ago

Lasko looked at the Duty Squad, sitting around the table warming themselves with coffee and trying carefully to avoid looking at the "new help" serving them their mid-afternoon tea.

This week, it was Shota's Team's turn to be on Reaction/Errand Boys Duty and perform whatever tasks Vanner would be giving them. Likely it'd be another pack of toys to spread around the Valley. Vanner loved his toys and was always coming up with new uses for things or altering them to fit the need of the Kildar and the safety of his valley.

In Lasko's opinion, Vanner was the best kind of soldier: smart and lazy. He'd find the best way to do the job right the first time and with the minimum effort. Though as his budget went up, or he sold another patent and gizmo he'd altered back to Uncle Sam, he'd often upgrade older systems and that was a lot of make work as far as the troopers were concerned.

This was one of those times. With Shota still in the US recovering from the accident during the Festival of Balar, his team would need reminding of what was what. And where he, Lasko, was going to be, as well as the help he'd be giving them along the way.

With Shota, Lasko and Vanner could be sure that such a simple job would be followed to the "T." Shota would have carried his orders in hand, just to make sure he got it right the first time, too. With him missing, though...

Sure enough, something else would always become a higher priority task for the Kildar and those he commanded. Murphy, he'd learned, was a SOB and loved a good joke. Like finding the Spetnaz snipers asleep in their hide, not an arm's reach away from the hide he'd chosen for his own before light became his enemy. Well, in that situation, both teams had plenty to bitch about with Murphy, but Lasko had noticed first and thus another team of Russians had joined their friends. Oh, not dead, though that would have been easy enough. No, they were held by the Keldara and put to work until the Russians asked for them back. That had been three months or so after the final shots had been fired between Georgia and Russia. Not that the Spetnaz had complained - a little manual labor and they got to drink Keldara beer. Soft life, comparatively.

Then Lasko had lost another spotter. He'd been tracking down what seemed to be a large party of raiders when the boy slipped through an unseen ice crevasse. He'd broken his leg in three places. Even worse, the raiders he'd been tracking turned out to be the survivors of four little farms two valleys east. They'd been just hanging on, surviving hand to mouth.

Valkyrie had been a busy girl for the next few hours moving them to Alersso, and now Lasko had to break in a new spotter, again. He knew Murphy had it in for him for being so damn good and knowing it.

He'd sure had gotten Shota at the Festival.

Lasko swallowed a chuckle. After the Kildar's example, the Test of the Wood could now be thrown over their head after the required carry, but many still threw it over their shoulder. Shota hadn't. He'd managed to throw it straight up into the air and stood, smiling for the crowd, until it came back down. Straight down.

He'd taken two steps towards the first person to laugh, raising an immense fist, and then fallen over as if dead. Anyone else would have died on the spot, but not Shota. Vanner muttered something about, "Luck protects fools, little children, and ships named Enterprise," as Arensky worked his magic and Valkyrie was summoned. It was certainly true in Shota's case that day.

After a fast flight to Tbilisi, Shota was stabilized and examined. Strangely, a similar injury was discovered on the opposite side of his head that must have been endured as a child. Damage of this type was completely beyond their capabilities.

The Kildar had made a few calls. Shota was flown to some specialist military hospital where they said they could repair both the new and old damage, maybe even more. Never one to let an opportunity pass, Vanner, Greznya and Mouse had traveled with Shota, part because the Kildar looked out for his own, and partly to do some tech upgrades they couldn't do by remote. After a few days, they'd come back. Shota still hadn't.

Mouse - Creata - was an interesting addition. After her training as a safecracker, she'd proven to have a natural grasp of all things computer, as well. Lasko had heard that something called the SEC wanted words with her about 'insider trading'. Whatever that was.

He did know that Mike had squashed the Ponzi scheme she'd tried to get some rich idiots interested in, and that Mouse hadn't been able to sit for her normal lessons for over a week after that. It hadn't even been Mike who'd applied the paddle. Instead, Stasia proved she could give as good as she took.

Still, she was trouble looking for a home. What was worse, without Mouse to keep them focused, the Four Blind Mice - so named because they occupied the deepest part of the building, below even Anastasia's 'special' room - would definitely get into more trouble. Who else could manage the two ex-hookers and a thirteen-year-old boy with a God complex? At least the girls, Elena Kulcyanov and Catrina Mahona, had picked up some techno-savvy in Lunari during their years as slaves.

Their escape had been miraculous and once Anastasia started teaching them, they showed an adeptness for the same type of work Mouse did. They had the added advantage - though it was a bitch to acquire it, and he didn't envy them for it - of having used their bodies to survive, something Mouse sorely lacked. This gave them a willingness to do the kind of social engineering that sometimes made the difference between success and failure.

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Lasko stopped himself from reaching for a buttery Danish once again. He tried to figure out what to tell the Ready Team's temporary NCO, Savo. They had complained already to Vanner about the "Stuff" they had to carry across every ridge and up every cliffside. Truth be told, Lasko had sympathized, which is why he'd gone with them to beard Vanner in his den.

Vanner had just smiled and said, "We can't have eyes everywhere. With these we have the extra bandwidth, power and new burst encryption packet ability." Ignoring the rapidly glazing eyes, he plowed on. "Don't forget to emplace their micro-solar panels. As long as they have power, you'll be able tap into them with your new PDA's almost immediately. Grez installed the Apps herself, with a little help from the Four Blind Mice."

He grinned maliciously. "They worked so hard putting all these 'toys' together, so you'd have something to do this week."

He said this with justifiable pride in his wife's work. He didn't mention the months of work and countless bribes to the Mice to rewrite the code and rewire incompatible technologies into one compact box. He also didn't mention that this deployment was more in the nature of a field test for a possible sale back to the States. Two birds, one stone. Field testing, data studies and another better layer of protection and communications for the Keldara troops. Win-win, as far as he was concerned.

That would get Grez off his back regarding the budget, too. Running an Intel shop was expensive. He's never realized quite how expensive, when Uncle Sam was footing the tab. But running his own, and writing the budget - well, thank God for Grez! Without her to squeeze every penny, he'd have run over budget months ago. Still, it was getting to be a close thing. Pretty soon, he'd have to go to Mike for another half million dollars if this project didn't pan out.

He nodded to himself and then nodded to Lasko. Even Lasko had had to dip into the new tech funds a few times. His new spotter now had the latest gear, lifted right off the message board. He even had the ability to video shots up to a mile away all in their digital glory. Which in turn allowed data-cowboys like the Four Blind Mice or Greznya's team to massage it into one clear image for posterity. They'd done a poster for him of one of the slavers that just hadn't believed all the stories about this valley and its dangers.

Lasko had provided the blurb for the poster, which showed the dying slaver's face: "Surprise is finding out, just because the enemy isn't in your range, doesn't mean you're not in his."

Today, he'd come by the Cave to inform them of his planned training. That'd been a mistake, because it had also allowed Vanner to cadge him into helping "Team Mule" deploy some of the new gadgets.

Lasko needed to get Khul trained, soon. He wasn't getting any younger, and his fame on the sniper board was starting to wane. Now that he'd gotten a taste of notoriety, he just couldn't help but take it personally. His job had been a solo occupation before the Kildar had come; now it was a two man affair, and made him all the more deadly. If his partner was up to spec.

Lasko finally spoke up.

"About your next task, boys. Don't go near South Face point 212 or up the pass to the mount there for at least a day. I'll be out there training and moving something dangerous, as well as laying out these toys that Vanner keeps giving us to put out. He says it's so he can tell us when and where the guys we can shoot are coming from in time; I say it's so he can get fat and lazy in his lair." He grinned to take the sting out of his words.

"There's something up there that you young men don't need to deal with quite yet. Follow your maps and GPS on your PDA's and call home if you get lost. I'm sure the girls will be happy to escort you fine big lost warriors home to where it's safe and warm. Just think of it as if there be Dragons in these here mountains." Lasko repeated a phrase he'd read in a book recently.

"Only Dragon I've seen is one of them bitching paint jobbed helos," said. Tubri, also known as Two Brow. He started to turn to check the rears of the new staffers who had just walked past and got a swat from his acting Sergeant, Leni, as a reminder. "Right Lions, Tigers and Bears... Oh, my!" He joked to cover up his fuck up.

"Laugh if you will. Just make sure you stay off this side of South Face 212 for at least forty-eight hours." He tapped the map on the table to make sure they knew what he was speaking about.

He answered the unasked question. "Yes, it's the same one you guys put that little robot gun up on last April."

"Then avoid the backside of the mountain here by the caravanserai for at least a full week, please. After that time is up," Lasko continued in his rough voice, "I'll place the 'eyes' there myself. I don't want you to..."

As one the squad repeated, " ...to needlessly endanger yourselves."

Sergeant Leni spoke up, "Message received. We'll notify Oleg about the changes in patrol routines, so we don't affect whatever you're doing out there. Good hunting and good luck with the new 'Owl' you're breaking in."

Lasko nodded and left, stopping his hand from snatching one of the tempting pastries that had appeared during the briefing again. They were starting to affect his mid-line and that would affect how he lay prone lining up a shot. That and the butter in them would make his sweat especially sweet and noticeable to a trained nose, let alone one belonging to the prey he was after.

He made one more stop at the armory to pick up a special rifle and two sets of Arctic whites that had been washed a dozen times in clear water and aired out well away from anything that was tainted by human hands. He stuffed them into a garbage bag filled with leaves and fresh pine needles and stuffed that into his already heavy pack.

The laundress was not amused at how he treated her work., but it paid to be careful. Especially with this target. This time it wouldn't be a trophy hunt though.

He hoped Khul had taken a shower without using any soap or shampoo as ordered. Where the Kildar was a ghost, Lasko knew he'd have to be a forest-wraith to be successful in this operation. No need to give his target a chance to turn the tables on them. That would be bad, as in funeral pyre bad, after someone collected the shit left by their target after it'd feasted on them.

The Elders might not approve of this hunt, but it was necessary. The reports of half eaten game and strop marks on trees were getting more frequent and, more concerning, closer to the Valley. This had to be kept secret, at least until completion, but then the North East outer face of the next valley over would have one extra layer of protection that few would notice until too late if they ventured that way.

Few would voluntarily, due to the steepness of the climb and lack of cover, and thus he felt no guilt about anyone who might suffer from his uninformed decision. Surely any coming that way would be enemies or spies, and thus due all he and the others could place as future hardships in their path.

=============================

Lasko sniffed Khul Savina after they'd donned their snow gear well up the west game path.

"No scent other than your youth. Should suffice. We'll be crawling a lot in the snow and through pines later. That will mask any other smells we might make if we sweat." He smiled, "Trick is, don't sweat."

Khul looked at him sideways, eyes wide open and then gave the pile of gear they were taking with them another gander. There was no way they'd be able to haul all this without sweating a little, even as cool as it was. Or later when it got colder with the coming of the night.

Khul sighed. Nothing he could add would matter anyway. He just watched the old man gear up and did his best to mimic him. Lasko double checked him anyway and then had him to the same to his gear, ensuring that anything metal was covered and wouldn't clink at the wrong time. Lasko then opened another bag and then assembled a stretcher for the remaining gear.

"What? You think we are 'The Mules?' We'll share the load and place the toys for Vanner to test and calibrate later as we go. The load will lighten up before we reach the top. Then we'll spend the night just below the peak of 212, out of the wind and then do some sightseeing."

Which, to Khul, meant practice with the new scope and its laser designator only. No live round practice for him. No chance to prove his worth with a rifle, once again. In fact, Lasko made sure that except for Khul's sidearm he wasn't carrying. That made the giant, odd-looking, over-under shotgun Lasko had slung to his side more of a mystery than before. That he had it out instead of his favorite Mannlicher 7mm rifle was doubly odd.

If the old man thought he'd needed two rifles, maybe he should have brought more than the standard issue sidearm. But a look and a wry smile from Lasko told him he already knew what questions Khul had and he was ready with the answers. Not in the mood for a lecture at the moment made his doubt's voice die in place. He had a makeshift axe in his E-tool, if it came down to it...

"Our ancestors once hunted special game up in these mountains, with bow and axe alone. Our protectors have returned but are wandering closer and closer to this side of the valley, to where our cattle and families are. We will catch them and move them to a place them on the far side of the next valley, where the hunting is good, and no one lives. They won't have to compete with our own hunters until a time that the Fathers choose. That and they can't easily return to this place if they do not know where we took them. Ehh? It's not time for our people and these beasts to meet yet."

"It's the tigers, right? I've heard the rumors -" the youth exclaimed.

"Not so loud, Khul! We're moving. Load up, take your end, try to walk where I walk, and keep your eyes moving. You need to learn to use them as well as your nose and ears out here. If I freeze..."

"With tigers about? I'll freeze too, then pray that you can shoot it before it decides I'll make a less stringy dinner." He clutched at the symbol of his gods, a stylized axe hanging around his neck, and made a sign to ward off evil.

Lasko smiled. Maybe this one would last longer than the other. This youngster showed promise. He had the eyes of an owl and moved like one in the woods, normally, and had filled his family's larder with fall game by himself while the troops were patrolling and preparing for the harvest. He just needed more training in the field and less time playing video games. Khul picked up one end of the stretcher, Lasko picked up his and they began the arduous trek to the top.

One step, one breath.

Pause.

Repeat.

Always looking.

Always listening.

Always smelling the wind for any changes. This method would train Khul on how to move at higher elevations and how to be one with his environment and control his efforts in such a way as to not sweat.

=============================

"Do you see it?"

A nod and Khul's fingers flashed the range. Then he popped three fingers and made a pinching motion, then a single finger and a wider set of his free thumb and forefinger. Lasko knew he meant the three cubs and their mother as he had them in his Mannlicher's sight as well.

The cubs weren't ranging far from the overhang that was cover for their lair. They were still very young, he could tell by their oversized paws. Their mother was lounging above, on the overhang, watching them play and sniffing the wind. A low growl reached Lasko a few seconds later.

"Crap."

"Uh, why crap?"

"Wind is from the north and she smells danger. I knew those strop marks we found on the way up here were too big for her. And she is a big one indeed."

To his credit Khul just nodded and let Lasko keep on telling him what he needed to know.

"That means there are two males in the area now marking territory. She won't tolerate either being near while her cubs are this small. Our work just got twice as hard. If he finds the lair before we move them, he'll kill the cubs to force her into heat again. If he survives that is."

"No mother would take the threat to her children lightly."

"No shit, Sherlock." Lasko was indeed picking up interesting mannerisms along with the new skills the Kildar, the Rangers and Trainers had shared with him. But his skill, that was natural, born of need and hunger in lean times and bullets were expensive.

"Then there's the chance the two males meet up. I don't want two wounded and hungry cats out there hunting each other while I'm trying to hunt them instead."

"I thought that we weren't going to kill them."

"Not if I don't have to." With that Lasko pulled out what to many would seem to be a tomahawk, but with a larger blade and hook opposite. The handle was well wrapped in leather and worn by use. It was old, but not as old as the Named axes of the Families. He smiled to calm the boy who suddenly was shivering more than the cold called for.

"To honor the beast should it find us before we find it. It will do when we don't have a named weapon to use. It was forged from the weapons of past Kildar. This is. . ."

"Uh, Lasko..."

The boy froze and then faster than Lasko could blink dove into his bent over body, knocking him towards their carefully stacked remaining gear. There was a roar and ripping sound of nylon and cloth being shredded.

Lasko rolled over to check on Khul. To his honor, the young man, scared to death, still held his backpack between himself and the male tiger who'd just surprised the both of them with its pounce.

It gave Lasko time to lift and fire both barrels of the odd shotgun into the tiger's side. No need to use the sights at this range. Both darts struck and the drugs took immediate effect. The tiger fell unconscious right on top of the backpack and with Khul beneath it.

Lasko flipped his wide-band transceiver on and called in.

"Valkyrie, Valkyrie! I've got one large package ready for lift. You were right - there were two males. We're gonna have to move it to an alternate location, away from the female and cubs. Two I could have believed, but five in so few years when none had been seen in a generation or more?"

"...Yeah, I'll be buying the beer. I don't welsh on bets woman. Lasko, Out."

"Uh, could you get this thing off me? Please?"

He shook his head regretfully. "Sorry, Khul. I have to get the female and cubs sedated before she scents us or comes to investigate the noise we made. Don't look at me that way. Here. Hold my axe. If the other male comes, cut off his balls or something. I'll be back soon enough."

"Motherf..."

Lasko had already scuttled down the hill a ways and didn't hear the rest of the boy's invectives. Not that he needed to. He knew all those words himself by now. English was indeed a fascinating language.

=============================

Vanner looked up as a haggard-looking Khul and Lasko finally managed to make their way down to his Intel shop, The Cave.

"You look like shit, old man, and he doesn't look much better. I told you, you should have taken Shota's team with you. Even if he's not here. What did you boys do? Wrestle them into submission?" Vanner nodded to some monitors that had some scenes of the movement of the tigers in with the Helo on them.

The Magic boxes no doubt, thought Lasko.

"No, we found the lair, saw that she had a litter too. We found the father about a kilometer away when we were moving the primary. But as to the gear and our look, well young Khul decided to be a hero and tackled me out of the way of the second male's pounce and decided to feed it his pack instead of his face."

"Better that than the other. Did you have to kill it?" Lasko shook his head in the negative and handed his PDA to Vanner's wife, Greznya, so that its data could be downloaded.

"It was fully grown and old. Weighed nearly 350 kilos and it landed right on Khul's belly. Lucky for him the rear claws grabbed his webbing and Kevlar liner instead of his guts. It also wasn't a wild tiger to begin with. It had a tattoo on its inner lip. I'm guessing it escaped from some Russian zoo."

"I pissed myself I was so scared," Khul muttered.

"Well, I don't know what to say. Good work out there."

"Is the collar working?"

Vanner nodded.

"Good. I'd hate to think we had to do this again."

"They won't wander back this way," Vanner said hopefully. "And if they do, we can give them a little zap through the collar to, ah, dissuade them."

"Nice drugs," Lasko noted, "but the range on this rifle sucks. Can you get me a real one with similar rounds, or could we do specialty rounds for my normal sniper rifle? Never know when we might need it. Or want to do things a bit less messily."

"I'll see what I can do. Later. Now, I need to enter the signals into the 'Friend or Foe' database and download it to all the sensors. Don't want one of the perimeter robot guns to blast it by accident if we ever go hot."

"I'm sure Valkyrie was relieved when you told her the system was still down. I don't think she likes machines that shoot by themselves any more than I do."

"Believe me, Lasko, if it gets to the point where I have to set those things on automatic, we'll already be neck deep in shit." Vanner finally caught a whiff of something ripe and sewer-like through the musk of the tigers and the obvious urine smell. His wife's look made the young man fess up again.

"Yeah, shit. I did that too. Can I go now? Before anyone else smells me? Otherwise, I'll never live that down. I can imagine the nicknames already." The boy left before the girls in the Cave could even begin to giggle.

Lasko leaned forward and whispered into Vanner's ear. "Had that tiger gotten the boy, I imagine I'd be shitting myself until and when the Kildar found out."

Vanner smiled. "Well there's the corollary. 'Better him than me.'"

Lasko gave Vanner a stare that would have made a lesser man faint. "That boy showed more courage than any other three men I've known. Better him than me? No. He shows promise. All-Father willing, he may yet save all of your lives as he saved mine." Striding toward the door, he said, "Now I'm off for a shower and a nap. Then Khul and I are off duty until I say we're ready again. Got it?" Without another word he stalked off.

"Hon?" spoke up Greznya after a few minutes as she reached for the Cave's air ionization unit's power supply. "I didn't have the heart to say it, since I wasn't sure which one of them was the source of this odor. But it was close to what you smelled like after the Kildar had that little talk with you about our expenditures last quarter." A giggle, quickly suppressed, ran through the Cave. "So perhaps you should let this go. Yes?"

"Yes, dear."
A BETTER MOUSE TRAP
The Caravanserai, Interrogation Room

Eight Months Ago

"What do we do with him?" asked Greznya Vanner.

Pat and Grez were standing outside the interrogation room, looking at a very frightened boy though the mirrored window.

His name was Evan Nicolvich, and he had been a royal pain in the ass for the past six months. He looked like any other teenager in puberty, but had a build unlike most: thin, not much taller than Grez herself and, if she was correct, not a day over fifteen.

They had known for a while that someone, locally, was attempting to hack into their servers. Cyberjacking, or at least attempted cyberjacking, was common enough coming from the big boys. CIA, NSA, DGSE, MI5 and MI6, the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst, German Foreign Intelligence Service), SVR (Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, also called a fully-owned branch of the Russian Mafia), hell, even the Chinese Ministry of State Security had all taken a run at their computers and the secrets hidden therein. North Korea and Nigeria had tried, too, not because of who or what they were but just because it looked interesting.

Only Vanner's experience, remaining contacts at the NSA, and Pierson's assistance at OSOL had kept them one jump ahead so far. Layered hardware, Dungeon Traps - a dedicated server which created a new challenge every time one was broken, adapting, and trapping the hacker into an infinite loop of fake data bits and breadcrumbs - stalled would-be jackers until they could be back-hacked.

Normally, they'd catch on before this happened; they had very good code cowboys and tools, too. But since the DVDs from Rozaje had been buried at the caravanserai, the daily attacks had become a serious drain on bandwidth. This was an issue, because they needed every byte they could grab.

But these all came in on outside lines, easily traceable back to sources far, far beyond the Valley. Those people took a fried motherboard or a scrambled hard drive as the price of doing business. Once identified, tagged, and warned, they would usually stop. For a while.

It was annoying, but it made the girls better at counter-hacking. They learned quickly. Vanner talked Mike into springing for a dedicated T-1 line for The Cave, and then another for Alersso to prevent shared bandwidth. Secure satellite links provided needed backups, though were too unreliable to use as a primary system.

Mike signed off on all the expense without really knowing why. He had a vague image of better access and communications for the town, maybe better connections to the capitol and the world beyond, agreed that this would be a Good Thing, and approved. Chief Adams had muttered something about bringing high-quality porn to the mountains, rather than online classes.

Then, about six months ago, attacks had started coming in from a local line. To be precise, at the physical juncture of the two T-1 lines. It looked like a direct, physical hack into the hub. At first, they were amateurish, almost clumsy. Routed through only one or two servers, back through the hub, but easily repulsed. As the days, then weeks went on, they grew in skill, complexity and frequency.

Apparently, the hacker wasn't just learning from failures, but also watching others make their passes at the Cave too. And then there was all the bitching from the Tigers who played COD and other first player shooters on the X-boxes and PlayStations down in the Duty Squad ready room. They weren't just losing, they were getting 'owned', by any team that had a particular custom avatar on its side.

They tried barring the IP, but that got spoofed and he or she always managed to show up. The taunting in the chat boxes, then the live chat, and finally in their own private voice chat channels was in Georgian and laced with Keldara slang, pointing to a local source.

The first crisis was reached two months ago, shortly after Shota's accident and emergency evacuation to the States. While he was still abroad, learning how to use his new and improved brain, Creata had made her own recovery much more quickly.

The diminutive safecracking specialist had chosen to receive a number of 'upgrades' as well, all paid for on her dime. Well, truckloads of dimes if she was to be believed.

There was now a chip in her brain, similar to Shota's set but with a very different purpose indeed. While Shota used his to allow him to think, period, hers enabled her to process and store data at a rate no natural human could match. Like Shota, she had extra memory installed as well, but implanted in the core of the long bones of her body to give her some redundancy in case of damage.

Running down her right arm was a series of bioconnective 'neurons', leading down to her index finger. She could, essentially, place her finger on any electronic device, extrude nano-connectors and hardwire her brain to the system, crashing it or stripping it of data in milliseconds. The contact point had regenerative properties, as well, allowing her to 'seed' the controlled machine and retain a connection at limited distances. She'd been told it would be good for a quarter kilometer, at best, but she thought she could at least double that. And, if she had time to plant micro-repeater transmitters, the range was effectively unlimited, though time constraints came into play. Her 'little black boxes' would turn into unidentifiable bits of plastic and silicone after twenty-four hours.

The system was also designed to work in other people, in a limited fashion, part of the Manchurian program that the US had been developing with the Supersoldier initiative. It required no real conscious mental concentration on the operator's part. Just proper programming of the short-lived nanites that would be injected into the subject without their knowledge. For safety reasons, once outside the micro-factory in the host body, the nanites could only survive for a maximum of forty-eight hours and only do minimal replication to achieve programmed tasks.

There was no way they could be ordered to build themselves a new host-home. Yet. Not only was it hard-wired into their molecular structure, but they required very specific dietary supplements to maintain the functioning of the factory.

In Mouse's case, her 'factory' was in the marrow of the ulnar bone. Red blood cells kept it supplied with the needed raw ingredients, and if she was ever scanned, it would show up at most as a calcified growth, as the site of an old break or perhaps the beginning of bone cancer. The first was easily explained, the second could be received with faked alarm and a promise to seek a proper oncologist for testing at the first opportunity. The nanites themselves were only visible in a very fresh sample under an electron-microscope.

They lifetime of the nanites was also limited by the cells they mimicked. The invading cells would eventually cause a reaction by the target's immune system wherever the devices settled in to do their work. Effects varied from flu-like, if the brain was a target, to aching limbs if muscles and neurons in those were attacked, to headaches and bloodshot eyes if sight was the target, to the injection site looking like a pimple or a bug bite.

To protect the user, when retracted the injectors were subjected to a low voltage, high amperage charge and then basically regrown from the base out, discarding the needles in under four hours. To the operative, it felt like touching a static charge for a millisecond. To prevent both parties from noticing and reacting to it at time of contact, it was delayed until the user made a fist and bent their wrist in a certain pattern.

So now, with a simple brush with her finger, her nanobots would go to work inside her victim, doing no direct harm but quickly replicating and tapping into the subject's nervous system. As yet, she could only exercise gross control over them - no mind-reading or behavior modification - but that was just a software problem.

She'd thought about what would be required for full control of a subject. Basically, she'd need multiple contact points, over a longer period to ensure her nanites all had the proper programming. This carried risks, too, as the longer she delayed in implementing control, the more likely it was the subject's immune system would begin to react. Probably better, for now, to go with simple positive/negative reinforcement and training.

Her final modification was the implantation, in her left arm, of a biogel 'battery pack' between the ulna and radius. This pack, in turn, was connected to a monofilament defense system - she could 'throw' filaments from her fingertips by flicking her fingers, implant them in her target, and deliver a jolt of electricity powerful enough to knock almost any man flat.

At least, within two meters. And it took practice. A lot of practice. Retracting the lines took time, and regrowing them would be a pure bitch, she was sure. She carried around the plans, of course. That was one of the first hacks she had attempted, while still in the hospital. She needed to modify the software to ensure that nobody could pull a Pinocchio on her. Now, if anyone tried, she'd be instantly aware of the failed attempt and be able to take appropriate countermeasures, Kildar's permission or not.

The biggest negative was that, while the individual systems scavenged from her body, the biogel consumed a lot of calories. So much that her metabolism now resembled that of a shrew, rather than a mouse. Failure to stoke her fires would undoubtedly wreak havoc with her normal growth rate. She shuddered to think what might happen if she ever lost access to the well-stocked kitchens in the caravanserai. Another minor consideration was that, at full power, a discharge caused first-degree burns to her. On the interior of her arm. Talk about an itch you couldn't scratch!

It was with Creata's aid, and her little toys, that they were able to push back the attacks and finally begin to trace them back. Although, Vanner had expressed his concerns quite forcefully before acquiescing.

"Fuck no! I have enough problems keeping her out of the system as it stands now! If she's allowed to interface directly, what kind of shit do you think she'll get into?"

"Pat, she's promised not to do that."

"Bullshit."

"She has! And I think she means it."

"Oh? Why?"

"Because," Mike added, grinning wickedly, "If she doesn't, I promised her that I wouldn't paddle her ass like I did after her little Ponzi scheme fell apart."

"No?" said Vanner, intrigued despite himself.

"No. I promised that I would take her down to Stasia's dungeon and let Catrina and Elena 'practice' on her. Those two get very horny, and very bored, and since none of the Keldara will touch them as 'spoiled goods', well... I've caught them more than once playing 'Stasia and Mike' when they thought I'd be away. I figure, if I give them a victim of their own, and Stasia and I go down with the popcorn and to give pointers..."

"Oh, man, that's just mean." The two Keldara girls were rescued sex slaves Mike had taken into his harem after they returned from a school he'd found in Paraguay. Although there was no visible evidence of their years of captivity, being so far away from the Valley had been extremely difficult for both, and they had begged to return.

Once back, they began to realize the depth of their mistake. Yes, they were among the Keldara, but with few exceptions - Elena's brother, Oleg, and his wife Lydia had made them welcome, as had Juris Mahona, Catrina's cousin - but most of the village had simply ignored them.

Eventually, they had stopped going down to the houses, socializing only with the remaining harem girls and the militia rotating through the caravanserai. They couldn't even mix with the men from Alersso, as this brought too many negative associations of being 'sent to town'. Besides, the Keldara and the locals didn't tend to mix well.

Unfortunately, they both had mischievous streaks that came out when bored, and they were frequently bored in the caravanserai. Both highly intelligent, it hadn't taken them long to master every dirty practical joke they could find, from harmless, camp tricks - shaving cream on the hand, short sheeting beds - to more provocative ones - they had broken into Mike's bedroom more than once and placed tiny cameras. He still wasn't sure he'd found them all.

The solution, at least in the short term, was to get them training. They did hand-to-hand. They did weapons training. Bridgewater, the former MI6 agent, had taken a shine to Catrina. He'd trained her in sneak techniques, observation, and destructive Hayduking. Elena had fallen under Kurosawa's wings, learning Kendo and the various and sundry uses of herbs, from aphrodisiacs to paralytics.

And they shared Mike's bed.

Neither had enjoyed being a slave - Elena, in particular, held a burning hatred for all slavers - but they both had learned to enjoy sex. And as a social engineering tool, there was nothing to compare it to. Spending the night with Mike, either apart or together, was always a treat for them.

It never happened enough, though, and they refused to go to any of the other eligible males in the household. It felt too much like their whoring days, to them. They spent long nights pleasuring each other - 'Mike for ecstasy, girls for comfort' they said - and plotting ways to get into his bed more frequently.

Chief Adams, a victim of their early pranks, had decided to steer clear of the dangerous duo. Despite all the promised pleasures they'd whisper into his ears during mealtimes, he'd simply excuse himself and seek solace and release with one of the house hookers instead.

Leaving the two pouting and seeking another target.

During their years in slavery they had learned to be stealthy and to learn things on the laps of the various security geeks that helped maintain the facilities they had to work in. Two on one, one blowing, one asking questions, often would quickly turn into a lesson they'd file away for future use.

The two were responsible for the black market within the slave quarters of the expensive goodies and treats that their boss kept for himself in his supposedly secure pantry. The wine-cellar? Cracked too.

They'd follow the guards barefoot as they patrolled the grounds, seeking out weak points and patterns. Storing up information, money and supplies for the day they would escape and return home.

But the Kildar came instead. No, not for them, but the chance was given to them. They got into the armory, loaded up on ammo, weapons and some medical supplies and ran to help the attackers. One, Catrina swore was her cousin. Braving fire and even donating a grenade or two along the way, they came to the Tigers' rescue and eventually escaped with them.

They tracked Mike's patterns. They saw who his favorites were, and what he had them do, and strove to emulate their behavior. The one thing that defeated them was Stasia's dungeon. Nobody had access. Period full stop.

So, they practiced, as best they could, on each other, taking turns being the top and the bottom. Yet they always felt there was something lacking. Eventually, they decided that they needed a third person to be their exclusive bottom, so they could study reactions. Surprisingly, they hadn't yet found a suitable volunteer.

They took the problem to the Chief.

Once he stopped laughing, he had offered a little advice. "Talk to Mike. No, really! If you think you need to learn how to be submissive, he's the one to teach you."

"But we want to surprise him!" said Catrina.

"That's a problem," agreed Adams. "Okay. Still go to Mike and tell him that you need a bottom."

"You think that will work?" asked Elena doubtfully.

"Worth a shot," the Chief said, shrugging.

And so, they had. Mike had done better at concealing his laughter and had promised that he would find them someone to work on, but that it might take a little time. He said 'victim', too, not 'volunteer', but they were so elated they missed that detail.

Apparently, Creata was in the running for the position, though she might not be fully aware of the implications.

"Okay, I think she'll probably keep her word," Vanner finally said.

She had.

And now Evan was in the interrogation room, traced by a hacker who, while not better, was light-years faster than anyone else could be.

"I say we scare the shit out of him and ship him to Siberia," suggested Pat.

"Too late, on the first, and I don't know if Siberia is far enough away," answered his wife.

"We could just disappear him," he said, diffidently.

"No! Look at him, he's just a boy!" It was true. He couldn't have been more than fourteen, fifteen. "His voice keeps breaking when we try to question him!"

"Well, that's it from me," Pat confessed.

"Let me talk to him," said Creata from behind them.

Grez jumped. "Mouse! That's not polite!"

"Sorry, Grez. Please? May I?"

Pat and Grez traded a look. "Sure, why not?" said Pat. "You want an escort?"

"No," she said, waggling her left hand. "I think I can handle him." She crept from the observation room and entered the cell.

"Hello, Evan. My name is Creata, but you can call me Mouse."

"I did nothing," sullenly insisted the boy.

"Evan, I know you did it. I was the one who tracked you, who planted the trace on your computer."

"You!" His head rose sharply. Mouse could see him clearly for the first time. Thin, auburn hair - obviously, some Keldara blood in him - Tartar cheekbones, blue eyes, narrow nose. Not handsome, by any means, but not repulsive either. "How could you track me? I was careful! I used others as my robots!"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that," said Mouse sadly. "At least, not yet. I have some questions for you, though, and if you answer them how I need you to, I think everything will work out just fine."

"You can ask," he said, dropping his head again. "They've already tried," he said with a hint of defiance. "Threatened me, even. I didn't tell them anything, and I don't promise to tell you anything either."

"Good." She pulled over a chair. "Evan, look at me." He looked up. "Tell me what you see."

"A little girl."

It certainly looked that way. Mouse was barely five feet - 1.5 meters - tall, with delicate bones, a narrow face, and dark brown hair. She'd grown her hair out since Albania, and it now fell below her skinny butt. She didn't have much of a chest yet, and probably never would, and her hips were far too narrow to suggest any illicit thoughts in any man without a Lolita complex.

Apparently, Evan did. His eyes sparked, and he blushed at a hidden thought.

Mouse smiled. She rarely created such a reaction in a man, and her plans changed in an instant.

"You can think that," she said, stroking his cheek with her right hand. Her nails raised goosebumps across his entire body. "But I am very much more. I am the best safecracker the Kildar has, the best programmer too, and I have plans outside of this Valley."

Watching through the monitors, Vanner asked, "Wonder where she's going with this?"

"I'm sure we'll find out," answered Grez.

"Everyone has plans outside of this Valley," retorted Evan. "Everyone with a brain, that is."

"Do you?" said Mouse, archly.

"Of course I do!"

"And how do you plan to get the money to get out of the Valley?"

"Getting money is easy," he scoffed. "Send out an internet scam, spam it to millions. A few will always answer, and you can suck them in."

"And how did you get to the internet?"

"My father has a repair shop," Evan answered. "He shares a connection with the bank. He fixes toasters and televisions and refrigerators. The new stuff, he gives to me to fix - computers, sometimes cell phones, DVD players. He can't figure it out," he said contemptuously. "I taught myself to read Japanese. Nobody else here can do that!"

"I can," said Vanner. "Hmm. Might be nice to have someone else to do grunt work..."

"How does this get you online? I've seen the connection in his shop; it's barely enough to order parts! It's dialup, for Thor's sake!"

"The fools who bring it in have no idea what is wrong, or how long it will take to fix, and neither does my father. So, I look, and tell them that it will take this long, and I have to order that part. They pay me, I get the part and put it in, everybody's happy. My father, though, he doesn't ask what happens to the old parts. These, I keep, and fix myself. Or sometimes," he said, animation filling his face, "There isn't anything wrong with it, or it's just a software patch they haven't done, but I need a part. I lie, I tell them what I need, and they end up paying for me to build my own system." He smiled broadly. "It's really powerful, and dispersed, too! Bet you didn't even find it, did you?"

"Clever," admitted Mouse. "How long have you been doing this?"

"I've been faking out parts for three, four years now, but at first I was just taking their money and keeping it. Then I figured out the new scam and have been doing that for at least two years."

"And nobody's caught on?"

"How can they? Their gadget works after I fix it, so they don't care. And I'm careful not to pull this on people who might think, like Tyurin, or that banker."

"Cocky little prick. Thinks he's God," muttered Vanner.

"Why were you trying to penetrate the Kildar's network?" said Mouse, getting to the core issue.

"To see if I could. I thought it would be easy. But then it got tougher and tougher, but I couldn't let them beat me. I beat every one of the Tigers on their silly little games, so I figured the Kildar wouldn't be much tougher."

"Ah. You didn't want to back off from the challenge? That could be dangerous."

"I don't mind the danger, and I like the challenge," he said. But the mention of danger seemed to have brought him back to his surroundings, the concrete walls, the blinding overhead light, the drain in the floor.

"What happens to me now?" he asked.

"Now? Now I make you an offer you can't refuse," said Mouse.

"Where'd she see The Godfather?"

"I think Chief Adams has a copy. Quiet!"

"Oh?"

"You have two choices - a binary set, you might say. Choice one, you come to work here, and you and I build the greatest private cyber warfare center the planet has ever seen. You make lots of money, play with the most amazing toys, and maybe even get laid. I can promise you, though, that even if you don't get laid, you'll have a good time," she ended as seductively as Catrina could teach her.

"Who, you? I wouldn't fuck you! You've got no tits!" He got defensive, sensing a trap, but his eyes quickly took in her body again.

"Ah, but I have something much, much more important," she said, practicing the voice some more.

"What's that?" he said scornfully.

"Watch." She flicked her fingers. Evan was sitting less than a meter away, an easy target. He barely felt the filaments contact his skin.

She started to send electricity through the system into him, where her nanobots had been busy. She'd programmed them to tap into the most basic parts of his nervous system, the areas that received pain, and pleasure. She connected with the pleasure receptors.

A wave of ecstasy swept over him.

She never moved, he never took his eyes off her, but he was paralyzed with the waves of sensations erupting up and down his spine and exploding in his brain. He flashed memories of every time he'd masturbated and the two times he'd snuck off to the 'house' in town so he too could brag like the guys that he'd been with a woman, even though he'd only had enough for a blow job each time.

It was all of that. More!

Then the program settled into feedback mode. He could swear that he felt her take his cock into his mouth and expertly blowing him. He could feel her tongue teasing his shaft and her hand cupping his balls, but when he forced his eyes open, she was simply leaning back in her chair, with a Mona Lisa smile on her face.

"You want more? Very well." She thought for a moment, then decided to play back a recording of Elena's orgasms. This would be interesting on a male, she thought.

Her arm warmed slightly. The effect on Evan was much more pronounced.

It was too much for his teenage male resistance and he came, splashing the inside of his pants. His body, obeying the pattern set by Elena, ordered a second orgasm, then a third. His eyes began to roll as each successive wave brought intense pleasure, and an edge of pain. His knuckles grew white as he grasped the edge of the table, gasping for breath, face fully flushed, and his eyes - his eyes were either begging her to stop or to continue, she wasn't sure. She chose to stop, and shortly he seemed to have gathered his breath.

"That is option one. Option two, you can refuse the offer. I'm afraid that wouldn't be nearly as pleasant." She sent another mental command down the filaments.

His skin was on fire! That's how it felt. He couldn't move - he was paralyzed, he was burning up, Oh, God, how was she doing this!

And it stopped, mercifully, after only a couple seconds.

His nerves sang, and tears ran down his face from the pain and the pleasure and the shame of coming inside his pants before this girl.

"I could do that all day. Either one. Or the Kildar could have you shot. Then we'd have to get the backhoe," she said sadly. "And that would be most unfortunate. I'd plant flowers for you though. What are your favorites?" She stood. It would take another few seconds for the wires to fully retract; she didn't want them to drag on the ground.

"I'll leave you a moment, give you a chance to think it over." She tossed him a towel. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any clean clothes for you. Did I mention that the Kildar would provide those, too, if you agree? If not, well, you won't care about soiled clothes. Neither will the worms." She exited the room and re-entered the observation area.

"Recruiting?" asked Vanner.

"Yes," said Mouse. "He's very good, especially with tech. I think we're going to need him."

"Did you do your little Borg trick on him?" he asked.

"Me?" said Mouse, innocently. "Why, Chief Warrant Officer! How can you think such a thing?"

"Don't let me catch you doing that," he warned her sternly.

"Oh, I won't."

"Won't what? Do it? Or let me catch you?" But she was already out the area and back into the room. Damn.

"You know," said Grez, watching Evan shake hands with Mouse, obviously choosing option number one, the towel covering his groin. "Those two are going to be tough to handle together."

"She's hanging out with Catrina and Elena," added Vanner. "I've seen them in the foyer. They'll be giggling like school kids, then suddenly stop when someone gets too close."

"What is that story? Three Blind Mice?"

"Better make it four."

"Interesting times."

"Is that a prediction? Or a curse?"

"Yes."
MULES ON THE TOWN

Tbilisi International Airport

Two Months Ago

The old cargo plane looked as if it had been blasted by the sun, oiled down, then coated in dust and pollution. Repeatedly. Over many years.

One engine sputtered to a stop with a gagging cough of a stop much quicker than the other three. It spewed dark smoke and a hint of flame from its exhaust, nothing that excited the men of the Air Cargo section of the Tbilisi Airport. There was a bit more flame than usual, true, but that too passed, as did any worries the men might have had, if they hadn't already been so tired as to not really care. They were just running on automatic, mostly.

All sorts of aircraft came through here. During the Russo-Georgian War they'd seen their share of smokers coming in - their own military craft, in fact - but this was an older beast. By the looks of things, it had likely been on its last legs for at least ten years, kept in the air with spit and a prayer more than airframe worthiness. Maybe, just maybe, it was the skill of the aircrew. They approached and got a better look at the aircraft.

Its tail bore the flag of Uzbekistan, a fairly common flag of convenience. But that was peeling faster than the remaining paint, and a much smaller American flag looked to have been recently applied. It's other lettering and numbering was peeling, but seemed older and likely was original - at least, more so than the flags it flew under. At least all its lights worked.

Fuck! Especially the belly floods, which flared, cutting through the cold, flurries and settling dust and smoke. This let the ground crew do their job much quicker.

There were already bets on how much it'd take in bribes to get the tower to grant permission take off again, and more bets if it'd be able to do so at all. With the wheels were secured, the cargo hauler and inspection team arrived, there was nothing else to do.

As the other engines died one by one, the airframe screeched in sympathetic pain. Suddenly, they all started to reassess the safety of their chosen positions under the aircraft. They all decided to move to the rear where the cargo hatch was. Maybe they'd get a chance for a few more rubles as a 'reward' for helping unload the craft and to 'not' see anything.

A cargo craft coming in at this time of night; no one in the tower complaining; no police lights racing across the tarmac; no response helo launched from the ready base near the main terminal; that could only mean one thing:

Smugglers.

Smugglers who already had an 'in' with the men on this shift. Well, there was always room in their pockets for a few more rubles, and hard work wasn't anything new to them. And, if it proved to be something bad, like, oh, Islamic mujahideen, well, there was a procedure for that. A quick call to a contact in town, they call the Mountain Tigers, and that problem would go away. So, too, would the staff who'd arranged for the safe arrival, 'under the radar' so to speak, of the hated enemies.

"How the hell did this thing make it over the mountains down south?" muttered the oldest, and wisest, of the ground crew, seeking shelter from the wind. "You all saw the weather reports? Even with a tail wind it had to be one hell of a ride. I'm not going to volunteer to clean it up on the inside no matter how much they offer."

That's when the aircrew jumped out of the front belly door, kissed the ground, and cried thanks - one to Allah, the other to God Almighty. One was what sounded to be a Russian dialect; the other in what they all recognized as a Southern drawl - cowboy movies had been circulating in the local black-market recently.

"Ah swear ahm gonna shoot this beast if'n it donna blow up first!"

"Ah, no! How will we get back?"

"We go commercial, Alexi."

"That is simply bizarre, Sam. But you think we might let our passengers out before they make our wishes come true and blow a hole in our plane so they can, as you say, 'Unass'?'"

"Guess so, them were some mighty ugly storms on the way here," Sam said, giving his old bird one final look-over as he walked aft. He waved at the ground crew, then noticed the fuel truck.

"GAWD NO! Keep that truck far away until she cools off! Otherwise, y'all are gonna blow sky high! Them smoke and fire farts from the engines, they ain't from clogged exhausts. We got hot ports and a fuel leak somewhere. The rigger tape patch job must've melted agin!"

He continued in perfect Russian, "Hildegard's one touchy bitch. Give her a chance and she'll start a fire in a puddle of oil or hydraulic fluid! You damn fools get the fuel away and dig out a fire-engine instead - and BACK OFF! We gotta get our... cargo out."

"What might your cargo be, Sir?" Smugglers for sure, grinned the old ground chief.

In English again, Sam said, "A few local Tigers, a pretty girl, and some old grandpa in a wheelchair. Odd bunch. But you know, the Kildar, he paid us just fine to bring then back along with their toys. I'm guessing the toys belong to the Tigers."

"Tigers? You mean the Mountain Tigers?"

"Yeah that's them. Bunch of ugly fucks I got here, though they've been drunk off their asses for the last nine hours, singing loudly and off key. That was, until we hit that spring squall just south of here. Y'all better get ready for that weather. We got snow coming for sure."

"Tower hasn't said anything about it yet," argued the crewman. One sniff, though, and he could smell the change in weather coming despite the fuel fumes, dust of the field ,and smell of abused and tortured metal.

Sam put his arm around his shoulders and steered him around the aft end of the plane and pointed him and his head south. "Now y'all jest look up above the horizon."

"I don't see a horizon..."

"Exactly. At this time of the morning, this time of year, you'd expect the sun to be shining right through, not a big ol' mass of black stuff headin' north. We only beat it here by riding out the gust front and didn't that shake things up! Like to breaking in a Wild Pinto mare in heat, I tell yah. Bet it's gonna be messy inside."

His partner pulled out a hand crank from a locker near the aft wheel well and, with a promise of bribes, got some help cranking the cargo hatch down. Before it even touched the ground, gear bags started flying out, knocking a few men down. Then five large men passed an old geezer in an even older wheelchair out the back and pushed him towards the ground chief.

"You, move him to safety!" called one. "There's a smell of burning wires inside - I think we got hit by lightning on the way in, the intercom blew out so we couldn't tell the pilots."

With that, the pilots and ground chief - pushing the old man on what had to be the second fastest ride of his life - took off like bats out of hell. The rest of the ground crew, seeing their boss running for his life, followed, leaving their ride and gear behind. The fuel truck passed them all, smashing every posted speed limit. It wouldn't stop for anyone until much later, when it was stopped by a very large pothole on the far side of the field.

Shota smiled.

"Okay, you ugly Mules! Now we do what J told us to do. Unload the Sheik's presents we didn't use and commo. Take that flat bus to move our stuff. I really want to kill this plane in two minutes like J said. No sooner. Orders are orders. If your stuff isn't off by then..." He shrugged and lifted a giant tube, marked with Chinese and Arabic writing, to his shoulder, smiling very widely.

"You know how I was with numbers."

He grinned even wider.

"So, one, two, ten... whatever... MOVE IT MULES!"

Shota had taken to being a leader of men of equal brawn with great vigor. He liked being able to swat a man into line to make a point without worrying about that man breaking or getting angry.

It just was the way his team worked. Chief Adams had shown him some very nasty ways to make sure that they knew that messing with him just meant pain. It'd only had taken three examples - one of the guys twice - to make his point.

"Welcome to the Mules. I'm Boss. Sergeant. Kildar says so. Oleg says so. You follow my orders. Period. Or you're out of the 'Experimental Heavy Operations Support Squad'." Smile. "Everyone else calls us the 'Mules', so you don't have to remember the special name, but write it down. Keep in your pocket, you've got to check the schedule for rotation on patrol, or who has 'watch Kildar' duty and 'Ready Action' status."

Even though his new recruits had obvious questions, they knew better than to ask their new leader right now in front of others. Like Shota, they had learned that there was no embarrassment in asking others for help - as long as you didn't do it in front of the troops.

Anyone who made Shota's new promotion and job harder would pay. It was toe the line and watch everyone else, both to learn and ask them questions before it was too late. Every one of his men had a child's version of an off the shelf tablet with Wi-Fi capabilities. The Four Blind Mice had upgraded the devices and made them as hard to crack as they were durable. The applications and tools embedded in the devices were up to date and meshed perfectly with the rest of the Mountain Tigers' devices and the Cave's encrypted comms. It was as idiot-proof as they could make them. They had even been tested out by an entire classroom of rowdy kindergarten-aged children.

Vanner had been impressed by the alterations and durability of the devices. He'd added a little fillip of his own: detcord placed inside the rubber edging. Not only did it act as a self-destruct, or a weapon of last resort, but aided the device in remaining sand- and waterproof. He'd sent them back to God-Boy and Mouse to get modernized in looks and made less child-appealing - those colors would be death on the battlefield.

Twelve of the hardened and altered tablets had been issued to the Mules. Another fifteen were made as cool as the Four Blind Mice could make them, packing solar cells on the back and a shaker-generator-capacitor charging system. Mouse had added her own special touch, with the latest Mouse-customized apps ripped from every operational military, and even some that were as black as their own operation.

Six went to OSOL.

Six went to the Teams via Chief Adams's contacts - with a note: "Enjoy the new toy, love, Ass-Boy."

The last three went to JSOC for field testing. When field test data and alterations had come back, a final version had been offered up to several manufacturers cleared and capable of making the devices as designed, without cutting corners. This had netted another bonus for the Intel section and their think-tank (and in-house troublemakers), the Four-Blind Mice. It'd also made Colonel Nielson happy for at least half a year, until, like all budgets, the new income was exceeded and applied to other needs that kept popping up like weeds.

J had encouraged the Squad to haul as much foreign tech as they could, plus all the test rounds they could carry. Not only would they have something for them to play with that was definitively non-Georgian and non-US source, but also something more for the tech-heads to tear apart. They were told to steal anything different and new to see if it could be applied to their own use. If it could, perhaps someday it could be manufactured locally, either in Alerrso or the tech plants planned for the Five Valley region. Of course, that would have to wait until after a new town was built for all the displaced Georgians and a new, larger militia trained up to extend the protective umbrella of the Kildar in the region.

After the Russo-Georgian war, Shota's command had become permanent. The Colonel had promised that he'd get the best of the best, and that started with two Ghurkha DI's over in the Five Valleys training the fledgling Militia - The Mountain Rams. Any locals - original or refugee - those two and McKenzie (brought back to help the Rams get started) thought had the right mindset and build to become Mules of the Mountain would be sent through a special training course before being sent through a trial period with E-HOSS.

Initially the E-HOSS were meant to carry supplies and help break any Tigers in over their head or in a bad situation. They proved that the supply Mules could change into an avalanche of pure destruction when pointed in the right direction, given the right toys - or just told to make do with whatever they could lay their hands on and go save their friends and cousins.

Shota smiled, remembering carrying a quad-fire rocket pod into combat to clear a nest of pesky Russians from a copse of woods. They had caught team Sawn by surprise, escorting over a hundred refugees and unable to counterattack. No other assets had been free at the time. His men had thrown wooden spears tipped with mortar rounds, amongst other creative uses of high explosives and rockets.

The order had gone out: "Send in the Mules. Clear all obstacles and feed the grass with their dead. Get the civilians and our men out, any way you can."

Those woods were still a source of heat-treated timber for the growing city at the nexus of the Five-Valleys. Luckily the rains had come, extinguishing the fires. That allowed the twenty surviving Russians to surrender. They never really knew how many didn't make it out of the woods. The Kildar suspected there was a whole company of paratroopers, but the Russians never offered, and the prisoners never talked. They were simply put to work as forced labor until an exchange was arranged a few months after hostilities had officially ended.

"You can come out now, Katya. Are you feeling better?" Shota shouted through the growing wind and the dying sputters of the engines.

He reached up with his free hand and gave a well-stacked blond a hand down to the tarmac. She'd have been beautiful except for the smoke and oil visibly staining her face and hair. And the puffy, slightly unfocussed eyes. Oh, and some bits of food and vomit on her.

If he noticed that she smelled as bad as she looked the thought never crossed the warrior's mind. They all had made use of something in the last half hour as a puke bucket, except the proud Katya. She'd held on until the last gust front hit and they lost altitude at a rate faster than an express elevator.

Who knew a girl could puke so hard and so true?

They knew better than to say anything to her about it. For fifteen minutes they'd given Katya the best they had to make her forget her nausea and get her angry at the world again. Once she caught on that they were teasing her because they considered her part of their team and family, to make her forget her weakness, she started to return barbs in a way only a whore could. It made the Mules blush red to the tips of their ears, every one of them.

She even managed half a smile, at least until they bounced down the runway. Then she surprised everyone again by painting the wall to the pilot's area with another barrage.

Luckily that door didn't work, according to the pilots, or they'd have regretted coming back to check on their cargo. One wrong comment and not even J could have stopped Katya from defenestrating at least one of them, probably the Russian. He'd been all too touchy-feely on the flight down and back for her liking, but J told her to play along. She was there as his nurse and the men as his hired bodyguards. Letting a younger, better-looking man brush up against her instead of her old half-dead boss would have been par for the course with the chosen disguise.

At least she hadn't had to fuck him. Instead, she'd teased and hoped he'd been left with a case of blue balls for the duration of their stay in Tirana.

She recovered from the abrupt landing and gave him and the others a half smile. She had her own egress plans and that was all she was going to, or could, tell them.

"Shota, see you in the valley. Your men did well, for a bunch of useless soldier-boys. It was an awesome fireworks show. Too bad all those assholes got the wrong address, ended up in the condemned buildings instead of at an exclusive party and auction of prime American girl-flesh. A real shame. I'm sure I gave them the right address." She shrugged and giggled - purely a strange sound coming from a woman the Kildar often referred to as his 'pet sociopath'. "Wrong place, wrong time. For that bunch of slavers, anyway." Shota tossed her a bag, this one silk chased leather. It clanked when it thudded into her lap, along with his last clean chamois.

"Oof! Dammit, Shota, I'm strong, but that's fucking heavy!"

"Sorry. Give my share to Mouse. She knows what to do with it. She's doing good by me with my bonuses so far. Someday I can pay dowry for a wife that's not afraid of big things." He blushed. "You really should talk to her about investments, she's mostly honest now since the Kildar and Anastasia had a talk with her last year. With real gold maybe we can do more for the Families and ourselves too? Make sure she gets me the new Xbox too, please. We, uh, broke the last one. By accident." He blushed even harder.

Shota's watch beeped twice and then went silent.

"ONE MINUTE WARNING! MOVE IT OR LOSE IT."

"What do you think, Katya? I'm torn - should shoot from outside or set a charge inside? What you think will kill this bitch best? The Sheik said he was tired of those two doing opium and gun running on the side. I told him we could take them to the farm, we got backhoes, but he said good pilots are hard to find. Oh, I still need to thank you properly for letting me shoot them guys with the big rockets instead of just guns." He blushed. "J said, 'A kiss is normally in order here.' But not in front of the guys, okay?"

"Shota, you did that already. Twice. Sloppily. And you were very drunk."

"Sorry, I was very happy too." He heard a chortle somewhere behind him. "You drop that box of reloads, Tubri, and I'll shove that rocket pack up your ass!"

Katya said, "Happy at kissing me and living? Or seeing all the big guns and rockets in that warehouse ripe for the picking?"

"Both. We did it right, too. Nothing else got hurt. Much. Just a few abandoned warehouses and some vermin that needed exterminating, anyway. I like that new rocket the most, though. Filled with liquid air. Makes doors like glass and people too."

"Yes, that was a nice touch, a nice quiet liquid nitrogen explosion in the middle of the bodyguards. No harm to their fancy cars, or their weapons, or, best of all, their electronics. That was a nice take. Using your axes to just chop out what we needed instead of waiting was kinda gross, but, you know, kinda cool too." She looked up at the device resting lightly on Shota's shoulder and shivered.

"Did you read the label on the rocket you loaded up this time?" Katya was sure finding the cold rocket was a pure accident, but its choice, accidental or not, had minimized collateral damage during the final stages of the Sheik's Tirana 'Urban Renewal' project and crime reduction movement combined into one noisy black op. All ammo and empties left on the field pointed back at Iran, China, North Korea and good ole Mother-Russia. Nothing local or that would be tied to the US, or the Kildar. And using the Sheik - who would have thought an Uzbekistani sheik would wipe out a den of sex slavers in Albania?

In the end it was made to look like a major drug deal, weapons buy, and slave trade gone terribly, terribly bad. It all had to be timed to take place during a live fire exercise at the NATO base beyond the city. All eyes had been turned that way, with many families taking to the hills just beyond the warning fences to watch the Americans and their European allies waste another few million dollars just for practice.

Surely many had personal dilemmas after the fireworks in the hills and in-town had ended. Ignore the fireworks and wait for the loot? It would be less risky. But what if their involvement came out? In the end, the MP's beginning to patrol the streets of the chaotic city solved the problem. The Policia e Shtetit, Albanian State Police, took over the investigation, although it didn't take long to realize that something big had gone down right under their very own noses. And, since no one had bothered to bribe them, they were out for blood and trying to do their jobs for once.

In short order they had evidence pointing at a half dozen different countries. Worse still, more than thirty heavies, and twelve major players in town, were just gone. That wasn't counting the baker's dozen of still defrosting hacked up men at a famous brothel, auction and slave transshipment house in town.

The few that hadn't come to the 'party' had encountered Katya in full hooker-cum-secret agent mode. She hadn't had to repeat herself in their terminations once. J had given her a tube of superglue, some dental floss, a toothpick, a playing card, a bag of pistachios, and a jar of habaneros and told her to have fun. A few local farmers hardly noticed how large their compost piles had grown overnight; they were more confused by the stockings stuffed full of Euros left hanging on their doors.

She'd even gotten to use her new trick, breaking a neck using just her thighs. Though she was damned if she could figure out why J kept calling her Onatopp, afterwards.

In the end, the police declared all the various killings justified. After all, they were all criminals, if also leading lights in the city. Another crop would sprout, eventually. The only loose end were the Mules, who scampered out of town after emptying the arms warehouse while J, in his role as an elder statesman, held court on the far side. From there it was into stolen trucks and a final run to an abandoned airfield a dozen miles outside of town.

The last of the weapons, ammo-boxes, the Sheik's team bonus pay in individual bags of gold (one each), and what smelled like coffee beans - still green, taken from one of the warehouses that no longer had living owners to complain - filled all four of the towed baggage cars. Two Brow jumped into the driver's seat and had pulled up next to Katya in her aircraft tow truck.

As soldiers they lived on coffee and had claimed that as their bounty and then let in the Sheik's selected looter to grab everything else not nailed down. A full list would be sent to Vanner later along with any other future bonuses or payments. That would likely take months, as fencing that much loot would have to be done slowly. Katya had made the Sheik promise to build a real orphanage and school that wouldn't end up sending the girls and prettier boys into sex-slavery. J had whispered something in the Sheik's ear and the man had nodded sagely and agreed to the demand as if it had been in his original plans in the first place.

That likely would mean smaller shares of future bonuses. But Vanner was more concerned with intel and who tried to move in to fill the sudden vacuum. Who knew when they'd be called to clean up the town again? After Shota's debriefing he was sure it would be a topic that the big man would bring up at every opportunity. He loved blowing things up.

"You all seem ready. Nothing's left aboard but that other crap we captured, right? The opium and hash the pilots think is their bonus? Sheik said burn it all. Just remember it's gotta look like accident. That's why the Sheik picked this plane and this crew. J will take care of the crew and get them home safely. I'm sure they'll just be happy to be on their way without anyone learning they were here in the first place or tying them to this mess."

Katya finished her quick reminder, wiped off her face with the chamois, shook it out and offered it back to Shota. He shook his head in the negative.

Savo looked nervous perched on top of the pile of ammo boxes.

"Sarge? Could we move farther away from the plane before you BIP it?" He sniffed the air and pointed at the small line of smoke coming out of the rear bay. "Ought to make it quick too, before that electrical fire does it for us."

"BIP? That's why I picked a white phosphorous rocket to use." He smiled at Katya.

"That old bird's made of aluminum and steel. Add oxygen and my willie pete and you end up with thermite, near enough. Burns so hot water doesn't help. Foam maybe, but I'll bet twenty rubles that fire truck turns around when we run off since Two Brow just threw two smoke grenades inside! What the fuck you do that for?"

"Sorry Sarge, you were talking so much, and we got a schedule to keep. I figure only a lot of smoke will make our running look real, put all eyes on the plane and not on you when you shoot it. Right?"

He had to admit, for once Two-Brow's logic was sound. "Yeah, okay. See you Katya. Go see Mouse soon. Or I'll kiss you again!"

His men laughed, and she blushed. She slammed the tiny car to its top speed of forty KPH and took off. Her path would lead to the far hangars where there'd be a change of clothes and a motorcycle waiting for her. Theirs would lead to a rear gate and several SUV's filled with drivers from Team Oleg, but first things first:

Erase all evidence. Pilots too if necessary.

Shota looked around. Nope. They and J were long gone, and the smoke was getting bad.

He jumped on the rear of the last luggage cart, hooking a foot under a cargo strap. That allowed him to take a solid stance even as the swaying cart increased the distance from the aircraft.

"Wish we had a heat seeker, but I think they'd spot that from the tower. Keep us in the shadow and moving opposite the fire truck and Katya, Two Brow! Back blast area clear?"

"Roger that."

"Hey, Savo! Bet you I can center hit that hatch with the rocket from here. I win, I get your sister for the flower picking this spring. Deal?"

"No deal. I've heard the stories about you - what happen to the girl in Virginia? I don't need my sister with a broken jaw or walking with crutches for the rest of the spring. Besides, what man would marry her after the stories got started? How about five kilos of your share of pistachios instead? Bet you hit the door, but still set it on fire. Eventually."

"HAH. I'm Shota! My drill pierces the Heavens."

With a pop and barely any smoke the rocket shot out in a short arc and right into the cargo hold. There were some sparks as the propellant went off deep inside, making it bounce around, setting all sorts of things on fire. By then they were over a hundred meters away and accelerating.

Shota smiled at Savo, mimicking throwing pistachios into his mouth. Savo just flipped him off and tapped Two Brow, who floored their vehicle to its max, fifty-five KPH. Shota never lost his balance.

Life was good. He'd gotten to blow up one more thing before the mission was officially over.

Wasn't that nice?

Shota tossed the used tube onto the pile of coffee beans, rugs, and raw bolts of silk and lay back looking at the sky.

He hoped that their helmets and tablets had captured all the glory of this mission and that they could get another new movie made.

He hoped God-boy liked pistachios and dates, he wasn't about to cough up any of his gems, gold or silk. He was saving that silk for a future bride and their bed. It was going to take a lot to cajole one of the Valley's girls into his bed and marry him. Being rich and having his own home filled with luxuries wouldn't hurt. He was sure if the woman could survive bedding him, their children would be like those warriors of legend.

"Gonna rain, then snow. I sure hope they got the trucks waiting for us where they're supposed to be. I don't want to fly again today in this shit, not even if Valkyrie is the pilot. Though she is pretty." That started another line of thought. "Hey, Savo, you know everyone down at the airfield, dontcha? Does Valkyrie have a boyfriend? I hear them American women like their men big and dumb."

Shota never stopped grinning.

Then it started to rain pieces of the Hildegard. Pieces that were burning.

After that, Shota had other things to bitch about as some even reached their cargo train. Bare-handed or not, they cleared the pieces on the move. Some of their pay could and would burn and other parts could imitate the late Hildegard too.

After the plane exploded, no one at the airfield thought about the Mountain Tigers, the old man or the pretty lady who'd 'borrowed' the ground crew's vehicles. Those were found the next day near the South Gate along with a box of candied dates, some spices, and a couple of wads of rubles. The ground crew called it even and didn't bother to mention their largess to anyone else. Their wives would appreciate the goodies and come market day the wives could trade what spices they didn't use for more luxuries or necessities. It'd all work out in the end. If the tower had just let them in onto the secret predawn flight in the first place maybe they'd have returned the favor the next day themselves.

They hadn't, so fuck them. What they didn't know, wouldn't hurt them.

No one found the pilots or the old man in the wheelchair that day or the next. An hour after the all clear at the main airport, two well-dressed European businessmen shook hands with an American Colonel who'd eased their way through customs with liberal use of his rank, a smile, and a firm handshake filled with a few hundred rubles to the right people. Just everyday business in the Tbilisi Airport.

No US Colonel exited the Airport either that day or night. But an elderly Georgian did manage to catch the last bus of the day heading to Alerrso. The bus was followed by a motorcycle that had seen better days and seemed glad for the company of the bigger vehicle as the snowfall increased.

THE END

