“Okay, let’s get this done,” Colonel Mandrell said then paused. “Issues, captain?”
Casey was trying not to stare. But the group of “relief workers” was… a little odd. As was their “gear.” Two were big, unsmiling men, clearly locals, who looked more like bandits in a movie than relief workers. Especially the movie part; both were at least as handsome as he was and that pissed him off.
On the other hand, the two ladies with them more than made up for it. Youch! Lisa was hot, Cassie was hot, these two put both of them to shame. They were, clearly, locals also in black skirts and colored tops that looked like they’d come right off a National Geographic cover. But… Oh. My. God. Hot. His brain would have been stuck on hay-bales if it wasn’t for the last person in the group.
The last guy was shorter than the men and damned near shorter than one of the women but stocky and clearly in shape. Erect frame with the look of having recently left the military and Casey would put odds on Marines or something “elite” in the Army. Hair cropped on the side, glasses and… Okay, he had to be an American. Only an American would go around in a Hawaiian shirt and shorts with Birkenstocks. At least in Tblisi. Admittedly, the temperature had come up a little, but, still…
“No, sir!” Casey responded, looking at the “gear” that had been loaded which was a huge fucking mass of black ballistic nylon bags. Some of them had been really heavy and from time to time there was a clink or two of metal on metal while loading. The two big locals had done it with the help of four more that must have been related. The four hadn’t even said goodbye, though, just dumped the stuff on the deck, piled into a couple of SUVs and driven off without a word. In fact, the entire loading had been in silence. “Just thinking about redistribution of the materials, sir!”
“Bit more complicated than that,” the colonel replied with a sinister smile. “Let me get your basic mission orders out of the way then I’m gone. Before I begin, you’re all TS cleared so I won’t do the spiel. But this mission is classified Code Word Ribbon Blade. Ribbon Blade is a sub-classification under Ultra Blue. I personally hate the new classification system but that that means it that you cannot discuss any actions under Ribbon Blade with anyone who asks you up to and including the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The term Ultra Blue itself is classified Confidential and Ultra Blue information can only be declassified by the President of the United States or persons so tasked to declassify Ultra Blue information. Are you clear on this? Let me make it very clear. This is not a mission you can bitch about in the O Club. It is not a mission you can tell your squadron commander about or the wing commander or even the Chief of Staff of the Air Force even if directly asked. Even with other persons that you know are cleared under Ribbon Blade. The only person you can discuss this mission with are the President or his designated representatives. I’m going to give you some specific information then I’m going to leave. All further information will come from this gentleman,” Mandrell concluded, pointing at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt. “Are we all clear on this? Load master? Are you clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Lisa replied, swallowing. “Top Secret, sir. Don’t talk about it.”
“Try not to think about it,” Mandrell said. “Lieutenant Ferl… How do you pronounce your name, Lieutenant?”
“Fur-Laz-zo, sir,” Ferz replied. “I understand, sir.”
“Captain ///,” he asked Cass.
“Understood and comply, sir,” Cass replied.
“Pilots? Is this clear?”
“Yes, sir,” Jim replied.
“Absolutely, sir,” Casey said. “Do we ask names?”
“Go ahead,” Mandrell said. “But here’s the mission. These people are not going to Azerbaijan. You will take off with them then proceed through normal HALO depressurization procedures. Vanner here,” he said, gesturing at the guy in the Hawaiian shirt, “will give you the insertion point. You will calculate the drop point and altitude and so drop them. Then you go to Azerbaijan and your regular mission. Is this clear?”
“They’re a HALO team,” Casey said. It was not a question, more a statement of unbelief.
“If it makes you feel any better,” “Vanner” said, “we’re not all that sure of the answer to that question.”
“I’m done,” Mandrell said. He shook “Vanner’s” hand and then the other members of the team. “Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” Vanner said. The two men just nodded but the females both said: “Thank you” in clear if accented English. Delightfully accented.
“I’m gone,” Mandrell said, stepping to the troop door and opening it without help. “Captain, get this done.”
“Will do, sir,” Casey replied. “Sergeant Griffitts, close the door.”
“Yes, sir,” Lisa replied.
“I’m Pat Vanner,” Vanner said when the door was closed, shaking Casey’s hand. “Former Marine, former other things, presently what my boss calls an ‘International Security Specialist.’ The ladies are Sergeants Julia Makanee and Olga Shaynav and the men are Corporal Jeseph Mahona and Private Ivan Ferani of the Keldara Mountain Militia. Julia and Olga speak English. Jeseph and Ivan sort of understand some but they don’t talk much anyway.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his breast pocket and looked around. “Who’s the nav?”
“I am,” Cassie said, taking the paper. It had a set of coordinates on it.
“That’s where we’d like to land,” Vanner said with a grin. “It’s at twelve thousand feet above sea-level, mind you. Captain,” he continued, looking at Casey, “we’d like to get partially rigged before you take off. Then, of course, we’ll have to depressurize. There’s nothing in your materials that’s going to have trouble with that, is there?”
“No,” Casey said. “I’ll have the load-master rig the oxygen.”
“Okay, I guess we’re good,” Vanner said. “Is there anything?”
“No, sir,” Casey replied, bemusedly. All this hay…
“Sergeant, actually, Captain,” the “security specialist” said. “Then I guess we’re good. Is there anywhere the ladies can get into their uniforms?”
As the aircraft crew started to disperse and the Keldara started getting the gear out of the bags, Vanner let out an entirely mental sigh. There was nothing that could take apart a small team like this like lack of confidence in their boss, that being him. He thought he’d handled that little interplay professionally, but he desperately had wanted to go “Look, Captain, Colonel, we’ve never done a HALO jump for real before. You probably know a lot more about it than we do. HELP!!!”
Which wouldn’t have been good on any number of levels. Tempting but not good. It was all about psychology. In part, he thought, through the help of the Kildar he had maintained the illusion throughout training that, while he was as unexperienced as any of the rest of the team, HALO and, hell, the whole damned mission, was no big deal. “Sure, we’ll get it done. Yawn.”
Which wasn’t what he felt at all. First of all, he was afraid of heights. He’d never realized, though, what “afraid of heights” meant until that first time in the door of the plane. Looking out the window of an airplane at 30,000 feet was one thing. Standing in the open door of one was another. He’d played off being totally frozen, but he knew the Kildar knew it. And he was fully aware of the synergistic effect of stress. One stressor was minor, two stressors weren’t just cumulative, though, they multiplied each other. Add enough stressors and you hit a break point in anyone. The only question was how many stressors it took. And right now he was dealing with a crap load. Including wondering where his break point was.