“Yes, sir,” the Secretary of State said, but she wasn’t laughing. “But there was one important question asked in all of that.”
“What?” the president asked, wiping at his eyes.
“Who are the Keldara?”
Nielson had his head in his hands when Lydia touched his shoulder. He was trying to figure out if Mike had seen the casualty reports. Anger could be worse than fear in a commander. Given Lasko’s sniper shot, it had to have been Lasko, he probably had.
“General Umarov.”
Nielson picked up the phone without lifting his head and hit the flashing button.
“Colonel Nielson.”
“The Zhoda Battalion is drawing weapons and ammunition at this time,” Umarov said. “Some of them are coming by truck to the Valley. Others are going to be carried to the pass by helicopter. But it will take a while to get them organized and ready. They will not be to the pass before nightfall. Sorry.”
“Not a problem,” Nielson said, still holding his head in one hand. “They won’t get there in time to do anything but pick up bodies, but I appreciate the gesture.”
“I’m sorry it took this,” Umarov replied. “I almost feel sorry for the Defense Minister. Almost. But there was a reason that he was so off balance. Would you mind telling me why the President has been fielding calls from Japan, China, Russia, India, Italy, France, Germany and Great Britain, not to mention a call from your own Secretary of State, about their interest in ensuring the Chechens do not capture the Valley of the Keldara? They’ve all been quite polite about their calls but equally… intense.”
“I dunno. They like our beer?”
Nielson heard the phone hit the desk and Umarov frankly snickering in the background. After a few moments the Chief of Staff apparently got himself under control.
“Thank you,” Umarov said. “I needed that. Now would you like to answer the question?”
“Yeah. But I’m not going to. If you want to know the answer, ask the Germans, Russians, French, Indians, Japanese, Italians, Brits and Americans. If you can find anyone in any of the governments who can answer the question. Don’t bother asking the people who expressed polite interest. They’re just going to be obeying confusing orders. You might want to ask the Prime Minister, President or what have you, personally. They’re about the only people that will know the answer for sure.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, sir. Oh. I’ll put it this way, and don’t take this as a threat. But if this valley looks to fall to any group or government, including yours, you’re liable to find every major country on earth invading Georgia in force. Nobody will know why, it will probably be a scrambling clusterfuck, pardon my language, and liable to trigger World War Three. But I thought you should know. Between friends.”
“Does this have anything to do with your current mission?” Umarov asked.
“No comment,” Nielson said. “Which actually means ‘no comment.’ Don’t draw anything from it.”
“Okay,” Umarov said, sourly. “Anything we can supply right away?”
“Not unless you have a bomber in your pocket.”
“We’re quite low on aircraft. And given the conditions I don’t see any of mine being of use to you at the moment. You really don’t want the former Defense Minister’s hand-picked fighter pilots dropping bombs anywhere near your people. Did my gifts help?”
“Very much,” Nielson said. “Thank you. And might I suggest that you stop by for dinner some time. We can talk about… old times.”
“I’ll do that,” Umarov said. “You have a battle to run and I have people to scream at. And many to fire.” The last was said with satisfaction.
“I guess this was a pretty good outcome,” Nielson said, hanging up the phone. “But I’d rather have one damned girl alive. I’d rather have all of them out of that valley of death.”
Chapter Fourty-Four
The mortar missed Adams’ position by barely a meter, dropping in the trench instead of directly on them.
That wasn’t much of a mercy. The blast area of the 120mm mortar was nearly twenty five meters. At a meter, the concussion could kill you.
The walls attenuated the concussion, though, the angles funneling it to the rear of the position and away from the two fighters. They also caught most of the shrapnel. Most.
Oleg’s left leg caught most of the rest.
The team leader let out a shriek of agony that morphed into a bellow of pure rage.
Adams was knocked nearly unconscious by the blast. His position was more in the line the concussion had taken and it threw him against the earth and rock wall, the combination of overpressure and impact slamming the air out of his lungs and causing his head to ring.
He shook the fog off like a horse flicking a fly and looked at Oleg. The first thing he saw was that the Keldara was either screaming or shouting. It took him a moment to track down to the leg.
It was a mess. Meat had been stripped away from the bone and Oleg’s foot was lying across the trench.
Adams slid forward and pulled out a fast-tourniquet, slipping it around Oleg’s thigh, low down by the knee. If they were lucky they might keep the upper thigh. There was no way that the best reconstructive surgeon in the world was going to keep the leg.
Oleg had his hand clamped around the thigh and Adams had to push it to the side. He slipped on the fast-tourniquet and pulled it tight then used the latch to cinch it down. The red arterial blood stopped squirting out at least.
“I gotta get you back to the bunker, buddy!” Adams shouted, sliding his arm under the big Keldara’s armpit.
Oleg was shouting something at him but Adams couldn’t catch it. He realized he was deaf as a post. It should pass; it had happened before. But right now he couldn’t figure out what Oleg was shouting. The Keldara pushed him off and reached down to his belt, pulling out that tomahawk all the Keldara carried. He pointed it at the leg and made a chopping motion.
“No fucking way!” Adams shouted, shaking his head. He reached into his own harness and pulled out a morphine ampoule. The guy was clearly crazy with pain.
Oleg slapped it out of the Master Chief’s hand and reached forward, grabbing him behind the head and dragging him down to look directly in the eye.
“I NEED TO LEAD!” Oleg screamed. “TO FIGHT! TOO MUCH PAIN! ONE LEG!”
Oleg took the axe and shoved it into Adams’ hand, then pointed at the leg.
Adams understood. Oleg only needed one leg to stand in the position and fight the Chechens. He didn’t need any to command his troops. But he couldn’t do that with the pain of the ripped-up leg. Or on morphine.
There was just one problem. Adams looked at the axe for a second and then held up one finger, getting up in a crouch.
He went down the trench, hunched over, to the position where Dmitri Makanee was located. He gestured at the Assistant Team Leader with one finger and the two went back to the position.
When he got there, Dmitri took in the scene in an instant then looked at the axe in the Master Chief’s hand.
“I don’t know how to use one of these fucking things,” Adams admitted. He could probably have cut the leg off, but he knew one of the Keldara could do it better.
Dmitri took the axe and knelt by Oleg then stretched his mouth wide. Oleg opened his and Dmitri shoved the hilt of the axe in for him to bite. Then he drew his own axe and in one swift motion cut down.
The blow cut through the shattered bones of the leg just below the knee and through half of the meat. It only elicited a coarse bellow from Oleg. A second strike to cut through the remaining tissue didn’t even get that.