Britney could feel his eyes on her as they passed. The guy was a fucking mountain. It was nervous making. She wasn’t sure if he was checking her out but she felt more like he was judging her. On what she wasn’t sure.
“Who was that?” she whispered when they’d turned the corner.
“Oleg,” the girl replied in accented English. “Team commander.”
“Still?” Britney asked. “With the leg?”
“It is a very good prosthetic,” the girl said. “German. It has some sort of spring in the knee. He says that it makes him run better than before. He intends to be in full form by the time we have a mission.”
“How’d he lose it?”
“Last mission. It was very bad. A mortar landed near his position. His leg was… What is right English word? Mangled? Yes, I think mangled is right. Had to cut it off so he could keep fighting.”
“Keep fighting?” Britney asked, incredulous.
“He was team commander,” the girl said, pausing and looking at Britney quizzically. “He had to lead, yes? Could not lead with the pain of the leg. So Dmitri cut it off for him. They were in fighting positions, he didn’t have to walk, run. Only fight and lead, yes? So… cut it off. Now he has new leg.”
“Go Oleg,” Britney muttered. And she’d thought Delta was hardcore. No wonder Gho… Mike fit right in.
The intel room was in the bowels of the ship and Britney could smell it had been freshly painted. From the look, it was in copper shield paint. Expensive but nearly as good as a full Faraday cage for a shield room.
The room was filled with computers and women. Like her guide, they were all very good looking and dressed in the same uniform. The effect was sort of overwhelming. Britney was used to being the prettiest girl in an intel shop. This was hell.
“This is the new liaison,” the girl said in English.
One of the girls said something in that other language. Britney got enough to catch “last longer.” It was close enough to Russian. Maybe Georgian, Mike had said that he lived in Georgia and that these were his… retainers. Strange term to use for your troops.
“I’m Greznya,” one of the girls said, coming over and shaking her hand. “Welcome to Chaos Central.”
“It always is,” Britney said.
“I’m Stella, by the way,” her guide said, then said something to Greznya. Something about the Kildar, meaning Mike.
“Interesting,” Greznya said, looking her up and down curiously. “She looks like a Kildar girl, yes?”
“If you mean one of his former girlfriends,” Britney said in Russian. “I’m not.”
“You knew him, though,” Greznya said, still in Russian. “Before.”
“Yes,” Harder replied. “And that is about all I can say on the subject.”
“Come, sit,” Greznya said, showing her to a chair. “Would you care for some tea?”
“An in-brief would be preferred,” the lieutenant said. “Gh… The Kildar didn’t even tell me what the mission is.”
“I won’t ask what the other name was,” Greznya said, politely. “But before I brief you in, I must tell you something.”
“I stepped through a looking glass and this is all a dream?” Britney said, taking a cup of tea from one of the girls.
“No, Alice,” Greznya replied. “It is something about the Kildar. He has recently lost someone. Someone important to him.”
“Is that why he was going to sit out this mission?” Britney asked.
“Yes,” the Keldara replied. “And then Adams, who has known him for many years, and Sergeant Vanner who, I think, is something like a son to him, they were both very injured. He feels much guilt for this. And for the other, too. You know the thing Nietzsche said about the abyss?”
“Yes,” Britney replied. She was having a hard time with disjunction. Yesterday she’d been perusing reports on Colombian drug smugglers. This afternoon she was sipping tea in an intel shop in the bowels of a multimillion dollar yacht and discussing Nietzsche.
“The Kildar exists on the edge of the abyss,” Greznya said. “But for as long as he has looked at it, has dabbled at its edges and stuck his foot in, he has never entered the abyss. Or at least not that he could not swim out. Now he is in the abyss. He is being sucked down by it. He is drowning in it. If he becomes the abyss, well… We have had Kildars who ate their meals surrounded by dead bodies, for the pleasure of the company. We will, as you say, adapt and overcome. But I’m not sure the world will.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Britney asked.
“If you can draw him back from the abyss,” Greznya said, “that would be a very good thing. For us, yes, but for many other people. You remind him of… good times, I think.”
“I don’t,” Britney said, setting down her cup, then reconsidering. That was exactly what Mike had said: “Good times.” What kind of a crazy man considered holding off a battalion of commandoes and getting shot very near to death as “Good times.”
The sort that wouldn’t stop until he tracked fifty girls down and freed them. The sort that had kicked her ass into overdrive when she thought she was about packed in. And she could tell what Greznya meant. The man upstairs had been more alive dying than he was now. She’d held his hand, then, dragged his heavy-ass body to cover, listened to him whisper that damned song. “This is my sacrifice…” he had muttered, almost joyous. Much more alive, then, with blood pouring out of him in scarlet rivers and still giving her instructions, his breath sucking in and out through holes in his lungs.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Britney said. “But I only met him once and that at… a very bad time in my life. But I owe him… everything. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good,” Greznya said, patting her thigh. “Good. And now, we will brief you in, yes? And you can try to help us with this idiotic database you Americans use.”
“God, not another harem girl.”
Britney looked up at the two women entering the salon and frowned. The two were dissimilar in looks except for being brunette. The shorter one was stocky, with almost a power-lifter’s look and had a gleam in her eye that spelled trouble with a capital T. The taller was more slender as well, not exactly willowy but lighter looking. She also had a milder expression. They were wearing flightsuits and carrying helmets. Ergo they were probably the pilots of the helo.
“I’m not a harem girl. Whatever that means.”
“Dummy, that’s the intel puke we picked up,” the taller one said. “Sorry, term of art,” she continued, walking over to Britney and holding out her hand. “Captain Tamara Wilson, late of the U.S. Marines. Currently… well… They put the handle Valkyrie on me. I usually handle dust-off and supply.”
“Lieutenant Britney Harder,” Britney said, standing up and closing the cover on the folder.
“How much harder?” the shorter one said. “Captain Kacey Bathlick.”
“Do you?” Britney asked, smiling thinly. She’d put up with her last name all her life, after all. The jokes never made sense until she lost her virginity, but she’d heard them long before.
“Point for point,” Wilson said, grinning. “You turn up anything, yet?”
“On what?” Britney asked.
“Ah, I think we need to do some more briefing,” Bathlick said, pulling out a water and sitting down across from her. “This is the way the Keldara manage information. They don’t talk to anybody outside the team. Inside the team, there are zero secrets. So do they have a line on the VX, yet?”