He looked up, though, at the sound of an unusual helicopter engine approaching. He couldn’t see much through the trees but it sounded… Well, it wasn’t a Huey and it wasn’t a Blackhawk. Not an Alouette or a Kiowa, either, he knew those. Sounded big, though…
He looked up, though, as it came to a hover overhead, battering him with rotor wash. A fucking Hind? Guerrin had never been around for the Cold War days but things like Hinds still gave him the willies. They were the image of the Soviet war machine that was going to crush the US Army given half a chance. Having one hovering overhead wasn’t pleasing making. Neither was the way it was causing the branches above him to sway.
A guy was already sliding out of it on a harness connected to a cable, though, dropping towards him. So much for a ladder, apparently. He’d never been extracted out of trees by a chopper before. Something new every day.
He ducked his head against the wind and only lifted it as he felt more than heard a body come crashing through the branches overhead.
“Captain Guerrin I presume!” the helmeted crewman shouted. The guy had the look of being an oldster. Guerrin couldn’t see much past the helmet, visor and boom mike but the guy was clearly American by the accent. “Care for a ride?”
“Sure!” Guerrin shouted back. “How we going to do this?”
“Not a problem,” the guy yelled. “Done it plenty of times!”
The guy said something into the mike then clambered around behind him. Guerrin felt something click onto his harness then they both lifted for a bit. They paused again and Guerrin realized the maneuver had been intended to take the pressure off his risers. IF they’d popped the connections to the canopy while he was dangling they’d have flown upwards under pressure and who knows what would have happened. Flying risers were no joke. With the pressure he reached up and disconnected one just as the guy on his back disconnected the other.
He felt another lift and ducked his head as they crashed up through the canopy.
“Don’t sweat it, captain, done this plenty of times!” the guy repeated.
“Who the hell pulls Rangers out of trees with a helicopter?” Guerrin shouted back.
“Who said anything about Rangers?” the crewman yelled. “I usually pull pilots out of trees!”
“You’re a parajumper?” Guerrin yelled.
“Well, actually, not in the last ten years! But it’s like riding a bicycle… !”
Chapter Twenty-Six
“First Sergeant… Kwan?”
Most of the company had assembled on a flat open area near the houses of the locals. It was a flat spot slightly lower than the area where the houses were with a short bank separating it from another open area directly in front of the houses.
Quite a few of the locals, ranging from some oldsters that looked on their last legs down to the usual gaggle of kids that swarmed around and American military unit, had come out of their houses to look over the new arrivals. And quite a few of them were damn fine looking women. Most of the company had been around enough, the average was four trips to the sandbox, that they weren’t gawking, much, except at the girls.
Kwan had at first worried about the gathering, not just because Rangers and women went together like iron and magnets, but because in the sandbox a gathering like that read “riot” or a carbomb taking out a bunch of locals. But these folks didn’t seem hostile or worried. They didn’t seem exactly friendly, either. They seemed to be more curious and even judging than anything else. Quiet. Even the kids were making quiet comments to each other, taking the serious tone they were getting from their elders. One of the oldsters, a big blonde guy that was one of those that looked on his last legs, was standing at parade rest and observing them like a general on a reviewing stand. It was nervous making.
Kwan turned to the guy in unfamiliar digi-cam and paused. His nametag read “Nielson” but he was wearing some foreign rank the NCO didn’t recognize. He didn’t even know if the guy was an officer or a civilian advisor or what. But he had an air of authority and on the basis that a salute never hurt the First Sergeant saluted.
“Yes, sir.”
“Pleasure,” Nielson said, returning the salute. “Colonel Nielson, late of the US Army, currently operations officer of this little lash-up. Where’s Captain Guerrin?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Kwan said. “We were just discussing that. He chose to JM the drop, sir. Sergeant Clavell said the CO told him to decide if he could go in the last stick and it looked good. But he came down fucking close to the treeline. He doesn’t know if the CO went out or not or what.”
“Oh, he’s gone from the bird,” the “colonel” said. “The Ukrainians confirmed all jumpers gone before they flew home.”
“So the CO… ”
“One jumper, at least, went down on that ridge,” the local said, gesturing to the north. “He’s probably in the trees. I’ve already sent a recovery team. Where’s the XO?”
“Here, sir,” Lieutenant Robert Imus replied.
“I’ll need to hold most of this until your CO gets here,” Nielson said. “But I’ll give you the quick version. The locals are called the Keldara. They are superb mountain fighters with a tradition that goes back… well very very far. I noticed your First Sergeant giving the tall man the gimlet eye. First Sergeant, are you familiar with the term the Soviet Hero’s Medal?”
“No, sir,” Kwan said. “Not really.”
“It was a general medal given by the Soviets, sir,” Imus said. “It ranged in grade from something like the Legion of Merit up to the Medal of Honor.”
“Yes, well that gentleman earned a Hero medal in WWII,” Nielson continued. “And you got those for everything from building more widgets to personally strangling Hitler with your bare hands. Because we have become close, he permitted me to read the citation. He took out four German Tiger tanks with a fucking captured German rocket launcher, by himself, on foot.”
“Holy shit,” Kwan blurted.
“I tell you this because while Father Kulcyanov is unusual, he is not abnormal among the Keldara. They are a race of fighters, of warriors, par excellence. They also have been recently introduced to Western style tactics and training by a group of people at least your equal as fighters and in many cases your superiors. Some Rangers were among their trainers but also former Deltas, SEALS and SAS. So the Keldara know ‘good’. But you are one of the first American units they have gotten the opportunity to observe. So the Keldara are going to be judging you, every minute of every day, on everything from your tactics to your professional deportment. Until your CO gets here, ensuring that you hold up the high standards of the United States military is up to you, Lieutenant, and will always be up to you, First Sergeant. The Keldara asked if they could come out and serve beer, which is to them something like the inevitable green tea in the sandbox. I suggested they hold off. I have never seen a Ranger act with anything like professional decorum around a keg of beer. And I say that as a tabber myself.”
“Yes, sir,” Kwan said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Have your men rest until the Bobsie Twins recover your CO,” Nielson said. “Then we’ll settle you into quarters and get started on briefings.”
“Sir, one question,” the XO interjected. “I don’t see any young males. Where are they?”
“In the mountains, lieutenant,” Nielson replied. “And that is all you are permitted to know. I’ll be briefing your CO further.”
“Are we going to be aggressing against them, sir?” Kwan asked.