The Kildaran - Chapter 51

[Finally, another chapter is ready!  Yes, I guess I've been slacking on the re-edits.  But, as it stands AT THIS MINUTE, I only have one additional partial chapter ready to revise.  After that, well, we'll see where it goes.

Down to the wire, here.  What's going to happen?  Well, Mike'll save the world, of course.  How, though, is a better question.  And what about the double-dealing Chechnik?  And does Putin have something nasty up his sleeve?  All these questions - and more! - answered in THIS CHAPTER!

So why are you reading this?  Go ahead!

Adam]

CHAPTER 51

    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 bade 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.
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    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.
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    “Bozhe moi!”  The involuntary oath slipped from Lieutenant Sankovsky’s lips as his terminal lit up.  He fumbled for the phone.
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    “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 Geresk’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, as long as 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.
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    “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.
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    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.  And he really didn’t need the jokes that would come with the Kildar asking for some lube.  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!”
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    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 in 2012 - ‘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 spike 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 Valholl.
    “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 have to plant it with Gereshk‘s body.”  Chechnik turned to someone behind Mike who 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 left just a little redheaded ball of chaos.
    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.”
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    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.”
    “So 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, in particular.  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 any more, 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.

50 COUNTRIES!

WOW!  What a huge number!  I could never have imagined in the beginning that this would be read by people in FIFTY countries around the world, but there it is!

And the country that put us over?

Saudi Arabia!

Welcome!

The Kildaran - Chapter 50

[So originally, this was the final chapter - not THIS chapter precisely, but the book ended with chapter 50.

Not so much any more.

After some serious editing and revising, the book now ends with 53 chapters.  Of course, it may get longer - we've been splitting some of the longer chapters down.  Somehow, I don't think the last two chapters will get too much splitting, though.  Too much, too continuous. 

Anyway, hope you're enjoying the ride.  Any comments are, of course, welcome.  You like the new Backfire?

Adam]

CHAPTER 50

    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 his 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 walkin, 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 poste 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.  “So 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 fairly 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 now 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 shouldn’t 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.  So 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.”
    “So 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.  So 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 their, 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.
    “So 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 is in charge of 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.

Apology

I know, the post is late.  I will have it up tomorrow (Thursday) evening - doing a stretch of four consecutive shifts at work, close, open/close, open again - which ends tomorrow.

So I will be posting the next chapter then.

Adam

The Kildaran - Chapter 49

[We're into the interesting situation now where I am awaiting re-edits from Dick.  I have a couple chapters edited, plus another that HE'S done and sent back to me that I have to integrate into the whole, but we're getting down to the nitty-gritty now.

Good news, though.  We will have more that 50 chapters - these last few edits have added 18,000 words.  Just to put this in perspective - before writing this, the LONGEST I had managed was 15,000.  So I'm quite pleased with the results.

But you don't want to hear about this.  You want Mike and company.  So, without further ado...

Adam]


CHAPTER 49

“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 actually was 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 carryons 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 sufficient 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, a number of 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 pretty 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.  “So 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 pretty 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, pretty 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 have to 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 whackjob 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-92 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.  So 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 as 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.  So 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 it‘s 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 fairly 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 of 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.