“No way,” Wangen said. “Maybe if we get a sniff on somebody like Rabah Batatu; he’s connected with Al Qaeda or at least a supporter. And he’s probably connected to the Dar Al Islami in some nebulous way. But the radicals that Otryad has a problem with are internal matters to Uzbekistan. They’re not in our sights at the moment. Even for a ‘friend.’ Not even for ANV.”
“Dulmaa will use the radicals to disturb the election,” Anastasia continued. “They will intimidate candidates and attack rallies. There are a few key members, Ju’ad Puntsag comes to mind, who are better off dead. Certainly from Otryad’s point of view.”
“Puntsag we’ve got a sheet on,” Wangen said, nodding. “More of a street thug than a terrorist, but nobody would miss him, not even his mother. But since he’s a street thug and not a terrorist, he’s definitely not in our sights. CAG and ANV is out.”
“Otryad has his own people,” Mike pointed out.
“They are big and can hold guns,” Anastasia said, shrugging. “I don’t know that they are… formidable.”
“Christ, all I wanted was a damned harem manager,” Mike said, sighing. “I take it this didn’t get discussed at the highest levels in a very specific ‘didn’t’ way.”
“Absolutely not,” Wangen said. “I definitely did not get a disk delivered by courier from the NSA discussing the ramifications of you meeting with Otryad.”
“Great,” Mike grumped. “God damn that bitch. If they want to do black ops they have plenty of people available.”
“But it won’t be as black as this,” Wangen pointed out. “The U.S. government has absolute deniability on it. Real deniability. We gave you a ride to meet the guy and an intro. What happens from there is not our deal.”
When they reached the plane it was already warmed up. With the copilot’s help they got Anastasia’s luggage loaded, and boarded with a last wave to Wangen.
“Have a seat,” Mike said, waving the girl into one of the front seats. “After we take off we can get a bite to eat and chat. I need to make a call, right now.”
“Very well, Mr. Jenkins,” the girl said, nervously. She fumbled with her seatbelt for a moment and then got it closed, cinching it down firmly.
“Call me Mike,” Mike replied. He pulled out his sat phone and called the embassy in Tbilisi.
“Lieutenant Timmons, Duty Officer, U.S. Embassy to the Republic of Georgia, how may I help you sir or ma’am?”
“Hey, LT, this is Mike Jenkins. Is Colonel Osbruck around?”
“No, sir, he’s gone home for the day.”
“Any chance you could call over to the Ministry of Defense and ask if I could borrow a helicopter sometime late tonight. I am really not looking forward to riding back to the caravanserai tonight.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. “I’ll give them a call for you, sir.”
“My sat phone number should be on the embassy rolodex as much as you guys call me,” Mike said. “Call me back if you can scare something up. Sorry to dump this on you.”
“Boring night, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Glad to have something to do. And it lets me practice my Georgian.”
“Thanks, LT,” Mike said. “Come on out to the house some time, I’ll feed you some real beer. I’ve even gotten some decent steaks laid in.”
“Will do, sir. Thank you.”
“Take care,” Mike said, cutting the connection just as the jet began its rollout. “Ever flown in a corporate jet?” he asked Anastasia.
“No,” the girl said, clutching the arms of the seat.
“They take off at a pretty high angle compared to an airliner,” Mike said. “And they fly higher. You can get a pretty good view from forty grand.”
“Forty grand?” the girl said, uncertainly.
“Forty thousand feet,” Mike said as the jet turned onto the threshold. “Less turbulence up there.”
“We are going up to forty thousand feet?” the girl squeaked nervously.
“Anastasia,” Mike said, gently, “have you ever flown before?”
“No,” she said, panting slightly.
“It’s all right,” Mike replied, sighing as the jet started to roll. “Just lean back in the seat and we’ll be up and level before you know it.” He leaned back into his seat as the jet rocketed forward. Corporate jets were designed for higher acceleration on take-off than jetliners and Hardesty was a former fighter pilot; he liked to squeeze every bit of performance out of the plane. They pushed down the runway at what Mike figured was about three Gs and then the plane pointed up at about a thirty-degree angle.
“Is this normal?” Anastasia said, in a frightened tone.
“When Hardesty is flying,” Mike said. “Don’t worry, he’s really good. We’ll stay like this for a while and then it will feel like we’re falling for a bit; that’s when he slows the engines down at altitude. Don’t panic at itl it’s perfectly normal.”
“I will not, Mr. Jenkins,” the girl said, struggling to be calm and composed.
“Please call me Mike,” Mike said, hitting the intercom. “Barring that, Kildar. Captain Hardesty?”
“Sir?” the pilot replied, happily.
“As it turns out, Miss Anastasia has never flown before,” Mike said. “So let’s not get into any acrobatics. And give us some warning when you level out.”
“Is she okay?” Hardesty asked.
“She will be,” Mike said. “As long as you tell us when you’re going to level out.”
“Will do, sir,” Hardesty said.
“There,” Mike continued, cutting the connection. “He’ll warn us when we level out.”
“What is this you said,” Anastasia asked. “The term, Kilder?”
“Kildar,” Mike said, sighing. “It’s what the land owner in the valley is called. Sort of like sheik or baron or something. Anyway, if you can’t handle calling me Mike, call me Kildar. Mr. Jenkins… isn’t my real name anyway. And don’t ask what the real one is.”
“I won’t,” Anastasia said, looking over at him.
“Mr. Jenkins,” Captain Hardesty said over the intercom. “Preparing to level out.”
“Not a big deal,” Mike said as the whine from the engines dropped and the plane seemed to drop a bit. He saw the girl’s reaction and reached out a hand. “It’s fine and normal. We’ll be level in a bit.”
The sensation of change stopped after only a moment and Anastasia nodded.
“I had not wanted you to know I hadn’t flown before,” the girl said, unhappily. “I’m sorry I showed my emotions like that. It was unprofessional of me.”
“You handled it fine,” Mike said, then chuckled. “Sorry, reminded me of a guy I knew in jump school.”
“What is that?” Anastasia asked, curiously.
“Where they teach the Army to jump out of planes,” Mike said. “You have to get cycled through it for SEAL training, even though you spend the rest of your time free-falling. Anyway, was this guy in the stick I was in that had never flown in a plane before he went to jump school. He did all five jumps without landing, so I don’t know when he actually landed in a plane.”
“Do you… jump from up this high?” the girl asked.
“No,” Mike said then paused. “Okay, I know one group that did, but it was a special case. Most jumps are under fourteen grand, fourteen thousand feet. That way you don’t have to use oxygen. High altitude is twenty thousand to thirty. Very, very few people have ever jumped over thirty thousand. Go ahead and look out the window,” he said, unbuckling and getting up to cross the plane. “It’s too unreal to feel high,” he added, pointing out the small window.
Anastasia looked out for a moment, then turned away.
“It still looks very high,” the girl said. “And very big.”