“Better than that landing in Indonesia,” Sanderson said, shuddering. “He was damned positive he spoke Eeengeesh.”
“USAF Flight 1157, Tblisi Military Air Field Control.” The voice was accented but fully understandable. “We have you are cleared to land Tblisi Military Airfield Runway Zero-Niner. Turn to heading Zero-Five-Five and descend to Angels Eight, descent ratio one dot five hundred meters per second. Conditions overcast at Angels Three to Angels Seventeen. Visibility below Angels Three seven kilometers. Civilian jet aircraft your vicinity at Angels Five, heading one-two-seven, five kilometers, direction zero-five-five. Note all pertinent flight advisories.”
“Cas?” Casey said, taking the bird off autopilot.
“They’re bringing us in from the east,” Cassie said, looking at the flight advisory bulletins. “Not only is there a note about potentially hostile activity in that general direction, you’re going to have to come in over some mountains then drop it down hard. You wanna look?”
“Co has the bird,” Casey said. “Maintain bank to zero-five-five, descent ratio one hundred fifty meters per second.”
“I have the bird,” the co said, taking the controls.
“The security area is way off to one side,” Casey said after a second and a slight lurch from the plane. “The descent over the mountains is pretty steep but nothing much. Nasty approach, though. But that’s it, thanks, Cass.”
“You got it,” Cassie said, taking the chart back.
“Commander has the bird,” Casey said then glanced at the instruments.
“You have the bird,” Jim said, leaning back and crossing his arms.
“One hundred fifty meters ratio,” Casey said after a second, sighing and reducing the bank. “One fifty, Jim. Definitely not three.”
“Understood, sir,” Jim said, his face blank. “Sorry, sir.”
“Not as sorry as you would have been,” Casey said with a sigh. “Look at the ground radar.”
Jim took his eyes off the glide ratio indicator and looked at the radar then blanched. A quick glance out the window revealed, even through the heavy clouds, a mountainside flashing by.
“Use caution when approaching the edges of the air,” Casey said, pompously. “And how can these be defined, Jim?”
“Ground, water or outer space,” Jim said, hangdog.
“Because it is very difficult to fly a plane in all three. Even harder to fly through mountains, Jim. You would have been very disliked by what remained of the crew.”
“Commander, this is the load master,” a female voice said somewhat nervously over the intercom.
“Go,” Casey said, grinning.
“Sir, did we nearly just hit a mountain? Because I can see some out the window. And they’re… kinda close, sir.”
“Not at all,” Casey replied, his eyes glued on his instruments. “We were just looking for mountain goats. Wait! There’s one, out the right side!”
“Really? Where?” the girl asked, happily.
“Man, she’s easy,” Casey muttered. “Ooooo, sparkly!”
Lasko stepped out of the door of the helicopter and took a knee as Sion Kulcyanov stepped out next to him. Both paused and scanned the nearby woodline through their NVGs as the blacked out chopper lifted into the air. The helo turned out to not be piloted by the Chief of Staff’s son-in-law, who was instead the co-pilot, but by the commander of Georgia’s helo squadron. The crew chief was one of the senior most NCOs in the Georgian National Guard.
General Umarov was taking as few chances as possible on this mission being blown due to leaks.
Lasko didn’t let that worry him; that was the Kildar’s problem. His was making sure that the landing hadn’t been observed and finding a good spot to overlook the actual LZ which was about ten kilometers away.
“Clear right,” Sion whispered.
“Clear left,” Lasko said, switching to thermal for a second view. “Deer at ten o’clock. Bedding. Right.”
“Moving,” Sion said, standing up and heading for the woodline.
They had all of tonight and tomorrow to reach the LZ and get a good overlook point. Which was about how slow Lasko liked to move. Sitting perfectly still was better, but ten kilometers in a day or so was close enough.
Chapter Twenty
“Jim, the idea when landing is that you’re going slow enough that you can actually stop before the runway does,” Casey said, making his way past the hay-bales towards the rear doors of the fuselage. When he’d been a kid his family would go visit his mom’s parents on their farm in the summer. He’d never expected his aircraft to smell exactly like grandpa’s hay-loft. On the other hand, that hayloft had some really nice associations so it wasn’t all bad.
“Sorry, sir,” Jim said, stone-faced.
“I think Tblisi control just thinks we’re idiots for not asking for two touch-and-gos before we landed,” Casey continued. “I’m really hoping they aren’t thinking the truth, which is that one of us, and I won’t say which of us because I’m kind, is unable to land a C-130 if his life depends on it.”
“Sir, were we planning on two touches?” the load asked as the two officer approached. The load master, Sergeant Lisa Griffitts, was a short, pretty blonde that, to his great chagrin, brought up all sorts of associations with hay-lofts in Casey’s mind. Unfortunately, she was a subordinate and, thus, very much off-limits. Even if there were all these convenient hay-bales stacked in the hold.
“Absolutely,” Casey said, nodding. “Certification stuff.”
“Oh,” Lisa said, nodding. “So it wasn’t that Captain Sanderson couldn’t find the ground?”
“Look! A Doggie!” Sanderson said, pointing out the window.
“Actually, that’s an Alsatian, sir,” the load master said, not turning around to look out the porthole. “And the guy controlling it is part of a security contingent that just surrounded our plane.”
“Really?” Casey said, bending down to look out the porthole.
“Really, sir,” Lisa replied. “And not a mountain goat to be seen.”
Before Casey could reply there was a banging on the troop door.
“I guess we need to see what they want,” Casey said.
Lisa opened the troop door and, at the sight of an American colonel, dropped a step-ladder out.
“Where’s Captain Moore,” the colonel said, swarming up the ladder.
“Captain Richard C. Moore, sir!” Casey said, saluting. He didn’t quite snap to attention but close enough for an Air Force pilot. “Commander Flight 1157.”
“I’m Colonel Mandrell, Military Attache for the Embassy,” the colonel said. “Get your crew down here, Captain. I’ve got a briefing to lay out and this is as secure as we’re going to get in Tblisi Airport. And we’re going to be joined in about five minutes by some other people. They’ll be in on the briefing. Drop your ramp; they’re bring on some gear. About nine hundred pounds plus five personnel. You’re probably going to have to dump some hay.”
“Yes, sir,” Casey said, blinking at the abruptness mostly. “Sergeant Griffiths, if you could… ”
“Done, sir!” Lisa said, practically popping her heels together. “Drop the ramp and alert the goats, sir!”
“Goats?” Mandrell asked.
“Nickname for the crew, sir,” Jim said, quickly.
“I’m so not going to ask,” the colonel muttered.