Lasko ignored the tugging of the heather and the bits scratching at his face as he brought up the thermal imagery site with geologic speed. Lasko was capable of moving faster. He’d proven that several times. But he much preferred moving at about the speed of growing grass.
A long, careful, scan with the thermal imagery scope showed nothing hostile in or around the LZ. The LZ was away from the major routes the Chechens used and well away from the few farms in the region so there was no particular reason anybody would be there. Unless the Chechens were staking out good LZs on the off-chance the Keldara were going to start flying in.
So far, it didn’t look that way.
Lasko looked over is shoulder at Sion and made an oval motion with his hand, indicating that this was where they were going to construct the hide. Then he started, ever so slowly, removing branches of heather. Removing vegetation was an art more than a science, for the sniper it resembled a form of bonsai. The vegetation had to appear as if it had naturally broken away or grown into that form. It could be tied down with small bits of vegetation colored string, broken away at the base or even propped up by another plant. Anything that looked natural. In the three cases where he simply had to break a branch off, he removed it right at the “trunk” and then wiped dirt onto the broken spot. Nothing could give the indication that someone or something had been ripping up vegetation.
As he did this, Sion had started on the hide. Since they were going to be there for a few days, this would be a full “bunker” hide position, a small underground shelter. Very small, about the size of a two man tent. Whereas any infantryman in the world, given that the enemy was no-where around, would have stood up and begun stuffing the shovel in the dirt and tossing earth around, Sion was slowly and painfully learning to be a sniper at the very core. He was still stomach down, his German entrenching tool only half extended, lifting up shovelfulls of dirt and carefully placing them on a tarp.
By morning the two would be tucked away in a hide that didn’t have much more signature than a rabbit hole. They would spend the rest of the time, until the flight arrived, living there. They would eat, sleep, pee and crap in the hole. Fortunately, the Keldara had provided them with American MREs so they wouldn’t be doing much of the latter. Nothing jammed you up like MREs especially if, as Lasko had done, you left behind all the fruity stuff.
“Ivan Ivanovich!” Mike said, shaking the hand of the man descending from the Kiowa helicopter. The Kiowa was a new addition to the Georgia’s expanding air-craft fleet.
“Kildar.” Ivan Ivanovich “Son of Ivan” Markovsky was a former Russian helo pilot who had turned one beat up Hip transport into an international heavy lift company over the course of ten or so years. Mostly the company supported oil production around the world — Ivan’s motto was “no job too remote” — with some paid assistance for disaster relief and other missions where people were willing to pay through the nose to move a lare volume of heavy cargo somewhere that roads didn’t reach. His most famous job was lifting an entire mammoth out of the frozen tundra of Siberia and transporting it nearly a thousand miles to the nearest railhead.
However, those operations more or less “paid the bills.” Markovsky’s other operations, those that most certainly did not make the press, was where he made his real money. Markovsky was honest about being the purest of mercenaries. He didn’t care if he was carrying American black ops or Al Qaeda. The only group he would not support was the Chechens and that was probably because his pilots, almost all Russian, would balk.
He also was very closed mouth. Mike had never tried to pump him but others had. If he talked to Al Qaeda nobody had ever been able to find out. He seemed to be an “honest” mercenary in that way. Mike was never sure whether to admire him for that or not, but he was more than willing to use him for it. And because Markovsky had proven that he was one of those mercenaries that recognized that “loss is part of the job.” In Albania Markovsky had lost an entire helo, and crew, and had two more shot up. He’d just taken his pay and agreed that it was bad luck. Admittedly, the loss costs on the contract had been huge but Mike had gladly paid them; the pilots on every portion of the op had been as good and brave as any he’d ever seen.
“I understand that there are political issues with this op?” Markovsky said, as they walked to the house. The pilot had come down on the caravanserai’s helo-pad which was on Mike’s old firing range, just beyond the harem garden.
“The Georgians won’t let me use you for the whole op,” Mike said. “Only for the insertion period. And you have to fly a narrow route to and from. Sorry.”
“Given the way that Vladimir has been pushing all the CIS countries it is not surprising,” Markovsky said. “I am starting to run into such problems elsewhere. It’s a pain but what can one do?”
Mike led him to the office and then turned on the projector on his computer. The projector flashed the map of the insertion area up on a white-washed portion of the wall.
“Six teams, six LZs,” Mike said. “One Hip per LZ. You got them?”
“I may have to substitute two Alouettes for one of them,” Markovsky said, musingly. “Depends on if one of my Hips gets out of the shop first. But I have the lift.”
“Insertion will be night and full tactical,” Mike said. “The Georgians require that you either enter through a narrow corridor and pick us up here then do the op or go to Tblisi Military, tank there, then do the op. Your choice.”
“I’d prefer to tank at Tblisi military,” Markovsky said. “If we have to tank in Russia we’ll be all the way over in Krasnodar. I’d have to bring tanks for the turn. And I don’t want to FAARP here, if possible.”
“Actually, by then we’ll have the beginnings of a helo-port here,” Mike said. “I’m bringing in two of my own choppers to support the op. Czech Hinds. I can get the fuel here for sure. What about aborts?”
“That was why I wasn’t sure about all the Hips,” Markovsky admitted. “I’ll bring a spare but if one of them goes down, then it will be the Alouettes. If you’re going to have actual ground support, I’ll tank here.”
“That works,” Mike said, grinning. “I won’t even charge you for the fuel.”
“Why thank you,” Markovsky replied.
“Keep the coordinates of the LZs close until the op,” Mike said, sliding over a file. It contained details about the LZs as well as maps. He deliberately didn’t mention the reconnaissance teams. He trusted Markovsky but trust only went so far. “Please get with Nielson on details of refuel, support and payment. Usual terms?”
“That’s fine,” Markovsky said, looking at the contents of the folder then closing it and standing up. “I’d ask why you’re only flying a few miles, but… ”
“Training mission,” Mike said. “Just getting the troops acquainted with air ops.”
“Which is why you are using me and not the Georgians, yes?” Markovsky said, smiling slightly. “Have a good training mission.”
“Well, I’ll say it will be good training,” Mike said. He’d checked the long-range weather forecast. It was going to be very good training.
Vanner unplugged consul hose from his AIROX VII connector and switched to the bail-out bottle on his gear, waving to the team to switch at the same time.
The pre-breath had been a pain in the ass. A necessary one but a pain all the same. They had to stay continually on the supplied oxygen or they’d get the bends when they started breathing much thinner air all of a sudden. The O2 flushed the nitrogen out of their system but it wasn’t the most fun in the world. From as high as they were jumping they had to stay on it for an hour, minimum.