“I have argued the same,” Umarov said, holding up a hand to forestall an angry rebuttal. “I have also managed a small, not large enough, compromise. You may use the Russian company to fly to your drop-off point. I got that concession because I pointed out, as you did, that you could not do the mission in time without having already started your ‘hump’, yes? But they cannot enter the Pansiki military controlled zone, absolutely not. That is from the president. And they must enter on a controlled route, pick up your forces, drop them off and then leave.”
“So no pick up and no dust off,” Mike said, angrily. He took a deep breath and then thought, hard. “What if… Look, I need dust-off and I need some helo support in the background. Among other things, both the US and the Russians are very interested in retrieving Dr. Arensky, alive.”
“So I was informed,” Umarov said, nodding. “But, frankly, I had not put together that he, and his daugther, would have to walk out. Not a very pleasant trip.”
“We’re planning on something on the order of Hannibal’s March across the Alps,” Mike pointed out, sourly. “No, not a pleasant trip. High elevation, low temperatures, nasty terrain. It’s going to be hard enough on the Keldara. I can’t imagine getting an out-of-shape scientist and his daughter through it. But I’m really worried about getting casualties out of there. I need a helo. And I have an idea.”
“Go ahead,” Umarov said, nodding.
“What if they weren’t Russian and they weren’t temporary hires?” Mike asked, putting a plan together just ahead of his words. “I’ve been saying that I need a helicopter, and some pilots, for quite some time now. So… I get a helicopter and some pilots. Possibly two helicopters and some pilots. And they are my support.”
“I presume you’re talking about American or European,” Umarov said, carefully. “Can you get them? On short notice? And that will be willing to do this mission? I could see a pilot that was willing to fly back and forth to Tblisi, yes? But to fly on this mission?”
“I don’t know,” Mike replied, honestly. “But I can try. If I can get them, can I use them?”
“I am not sure what you mean,” Umarov said, lightly. “You wish to get a helicopter for transportation, yes? They will not be armed, this is a simple business transaction, a bit of paperwork. I’m sure it would entirely escape my notice, I’m not sure why you even bring it up.”
“Gotcha,” Mike said, nodding. “Well, then, I think that’s settled. And I need to make some very fast phone calls.”
“Don’t let me slow you down,” Umarov said, nodding. “But since you mentioned this simple business transaction, I’ll make a few phone-calls, for a friend, and make sure that all the paperwork is… smoothed out.”
“I appreciate it,” Mike said, knowing that the Georgians could be byzantine, and greedy, in processing such paperwork. He’d smooth palms if he had to, it was a standard part of doing business in the region, but the fewer he had to, and the faster they worked, the better. The chief of staff knew just what butts to prod to get them in gear. “I’ll be going, then. Give my regards to Galiko and Captain Kahbolov.”
“I shall,” the general said. “I’ll also note that if I was to send a group of highly qualified pilots, one of them would have to be my son-in-law. But, no, that is not why I declined.”
“Pierson.”
“Bob, it’s Mike,” Mike said, sighing over the secure sat-phone. He could barely hear the colonel over the sound of the rotors from the helicopter but, on the other hand, short of a very capable and sophisticated intercept that could crack US satellite transmissions, he wasn’t going to be overheard. “We have a situation. No, we have an issue. No, we have a mission killer.”
“Helicopters,” Pierson said. “I was going to call you. We already got the word.”
“The Georgians are not going to let me use my Russki friends for anything more than lift into the nearby area. I’m not going to have dust-off, I’m not going to have support and I can’t exactly evac Arensky and his kid through those fucking mountains.”
“They’re also not going to let us do it,” the colonel replied. “That has been discussed. Not at ‘the highest levels’ but at a level high enough that it’s damned firm.”
“I’m not going to stick the fucking Keldara out on a limb over some jackass’ bigotry about Russians,” Mike said, bitterly. “But there’s one slender loophole. I can buy my own god damned bird and hire my own goddamned pilots out of my own goddamned pocket and as long as they’re not Russian I can use them for ‘non-combat’ missions. Including into the Pansiki zone.”
“So you need pilots,” Pierson said. “And birds.”
“I’ll get my own birds,” Mike replied. “The Czechs make a very nice Hind variant that is available off the shelf with a high altitude package. And not only does it cost way less than a Blackhawk, most of the parts are compatible with other Hind variants. But I need pilots. ASAP.”
“We’re not an employment agency, Mike,” Pierson replied with a humorous tone.
“You are if you want me to do this mission,” Mike responded with absolutely no humor in his voice. “I need pilots. I’m up to my ass in alligators and so are all my people. None of us have time to go looking through the want ads. I haven’t slept in three days. I don’t have time to be having this conversation. I need two highly qualified and technically excellent pilots in recent training who can cross-train to a Hind on short notice and are willing to go in harm’s way for a sizeable cash bonus and love of the thrill. I’d prefer no dependents. As Umarov pointed out, the risk of this mission, to everyone including me, is high. That includes the pilots. I need them on a plane within the next two days. Call Anastasia to make the travel arrangements. And I don’t care who you have to know, blow or glow, I need them now or this mission is a scrub. I am totally fucking serious. I will scrub this mission and the president can then consider… other options.”
“Oh,” Pierson said, thoughtfully. “In that case, I’d better start making some calls.”
Kacey flipped through the mail angrily.
“Junk mail, bill, bill, overdue bill… ”
Kacey J. (Jezebel) Bathlick, formerly Captain Kacey J. Bathlick, USMC, was five foot four inches tall and weighed in at a respectable one hundred and thirteen pounds, as of that morning, after her morning run, according to the bathroom scale. With brown hair that reached to just shoulder length and brown eyes, she had generally been described as “solid” in her officer evaluation reports. That is because nobody was going to put “stacked, packed, hot and ready to rock” on paper.
“Face it, Kace, we’re gonna have to find a job.” Tamara opened the refrigerator and removing broccoli, onions and red peppers. “I mean, we’re talking 7/11 time here.”
Tamara Wilson, also formerly Captain, USMC, was not incredibly taller than Kacey standing just a bit over five feet seven inches. However, with noticeably longer legs and torso, she seemed to positively tower over her long time friend. Also with brown hair and eyes her grading officers had often found themselves at a loss to describe her in militarily acceptable terminology. “Erect of carriage” was usually what the reviewers settled upon. That was because, in the case of her male reviewers, they felt that forms covered in drool with incoherent phrases like “Yowhzah!” and “Babe-a-licious!” would not have told the review boards much.