“Let me add they had better get the private rooms,” Nielson interjected. “And some decency. They’re willing. That’s not the same as interested in being trained or gang raped. They’ve had that in their lives and we’d rather they not go back, thank you.”
“If the senior NCOs were there to… manage things… Maybe,” Kwan said. “But not if it’s just the troops and junior NCOs, sir. Fights among other things. And the evangelicals would flip. Even if what happens on the mission, stays on the mission… I’d recommend against it. There’s that new UCMJ reg, for that matter.”
“Can you clear the harem quarters entirely?” Guerrin asked. “And is there enough room for a platoon there?”
“Yes,” Nielson said. “It was one possible solution. Some of the girls will have to double bunk in other rooms. They can handle that.”
“With your permission, we’ll do it that way,” the CO said. “Second Platoon.”
“Yes, sir,” Kwan said.
“Next on the agenda,” Nielson said. “Your mission is to perform local patrolling and positional defense training here in and around the valley. During patrolling phase there is a chance of encountering and possibly engaging Chechen convoys and patrols. I’ll arrange a more thorough briefing on the local threat situation. But, effectively, you’re here to protect this area while their normal protectors are… out of town. You will, in fact, arrange things so that it appears that you are here as aggressors against the Keldara, who are hiding up in the woods. The supposed notional mission is that you’ve captured a hostile town and are hunting for the hostiles up in the mountains. The Keldara are not, in fact, there but if you could shoot off some blanks from time to time as if you were engaging in raids and ambushes it would be nice. But don’t get caught with blank adapters on if there are any Chechens around. They will mount your head on their wall.”
Kwan started to open his mouth and then shut it.
“The question was, ‘where are they’?” Nielson said.
“And I didn’t bother to ask, sir,” Kwan replied. “Not my business.”
“Indeed,” Nielson said. “I will discuss that with your commander and he will not be authorized to pass that on. I might add that that fact is a National Command Directive, not something thought up by some local asshole. You are here because someone in your chain of command found it wise that you be here, now, doing this mission. That is all any of you, save your commander, needs to know. As far as anyone outside of your command is aware, you came out, did some training missions with a local mountain militia then flew home. God willing, that is all that will happen, except the militia will not, in fact, be there. Is this clear?”
“It’s a deception plan,” Imus said.
“Correct. There are additional details but I will discuss those with your commander only for the time being.”
“It’s clear,” J.P. said. “Top, get the quartering started. Colonel Nielson, we have another briefing?”
“And I need to get the girls moved,” Nielson said. “Fortunately, Mike has good subordinates. They’ll be moved by the time your guys get there.”
“This is a nice fucking shoot-house for some Third World yahoos,” Serris said as he emerged from the smokey interior.
Lance Serris, 6’ 1” tall, slender with short cropped blond hair and an almost unnoticeable beard, was twenty, just, having joined the Rangers straight out of high school with only intervening steps at One Station Unified Training and airborne school at Ft. Benning. Upon completion he hadn’t gone far, just across the state to Hunter Army Airfield. There he’d passed the initiation rite known as “Ranger In Processing” or “RIP.” RIP was a kinder gentler version of SEAL Hell Week, a week long test of endurance designed to determine if the candidate had what it took to be a Ranger.
He had assumed that when RIP was over things would get easier. What he realized within a month of joining First Battalion was that RIP wasn’t a pointless test. There had been plenty of weeks in the Batt when RIP had looked like a day at the beach.
Rangers had an interesting role in the US military in that, in many ways, they were neither fish nor fowl nor good red meat. Rangers were trained in much the same way as any standard light infantry outfit. Every light infantry company could patrol, every light infantry company could march, scout and do a basic entry. Delta Force, the primary “black op” unit of the military, was specialized for entry and killing or capturing targets. They could do a long range reconnaissance quite well, thank you, but tended to work in shorter ranges and hard bursts of, highly clandestine, activity.
Rangers, though, trained in it all. They were better than any other light infantry company in the US military, possibly the world, at patrolling, either in vehicles or on foot. They could march further and faster, in worse conditions. They were, in general, much more stealthy in reconaissance and their raids hit harder and faster. Their missions were always classified Secret and often involved, as in Mogadishu, “backstopping” Delta and doing much the same missions, just with lower profile targets or less resistance.
Some units that had a bit of one skill and a bit of another but no real concentration tended to be under utilized. Not Rangers, though. Especially since 9/11 their operational tempo had been through the roof. Jacks of all trades, close to masters of most, they were constantly going somewhere doing something.
Serris had started to wonder if it was worth it. If he transferred to the 82nd or, God help him, a leg infantry unit, he’d at least be more or less guaranteed of spending some time Stateside. Hell, he couldn’t even find a girlfriend when he was out-of-town 90% of the time.
“No shit,” Lane replied. “And those women.”
Specialist Kevin Lane, 5’ 5”, dark of hair and eye, had just gotten his specialist rank whereas Serris was already on the list for the sergeant’s board. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t seen a few shoot houses, or foreign women, in his time. And so far this mission was just fine by him. Among other things he was a “there’s no such thing as a bad jump” parachutist who freefalled on his rare free time. The ride in and the jump had been a kickass start as far as he was concerned.
“That’s because they ain’t yahoos,” First Sergeant Kwan said. “Get your ass over here!”
Apparently Top had gathered the rest of the platoon while the two had been doing their run-through and Serris and Lane hurried over to join the rest of the cluster.
“Gather round,” Top said, shaking his head. “I don’t know why the CO picked you idiots for this, but… While the rest of the company is being quartered in the local militia barracks, which I’ve looked over and ain’t half bad, you yardbirds are going to be up in the castle.”
“Hoowah!” Lane said. “That’s gotta be cool!”
“Yeah, cool,” Top replied. “Now shut up, fuckhead. Here’s the first problem. You ain’t gonna think it’s a problem but if you give it some small consideration you’ll see that it’s a hell of a problem. Most of the rest of the residents of that castle, which is called a caravan surry or something, are women. Fine women from what I’ve been told. And you’re all thinking ‘Excellent’ or ‘Woohah!’ But I guess I need to explain in words of one syllable. If you touch one single woman in that house, if you look at them sideways, if you even think about talking to them, smelling them, kissing them or, God help you, fucking them, I will personally bury your ass in the ground. If you’re lucky, you won’t be breathing when I bury you. So you are going to be surrounded by good looking women and you can’t so much as acknowledge their existence. Now, Lane, you were saying?”