"What you got?" Mike asked as soon as he was out of the simulator and the ensuing racket was somewhat quieter.

"We've got a problem with the helo transport," Nielson said, his upper lip twitching angrily. He probably didn't even realize he had that tick, but Mike knew when he was really REALLY p.i.s.sed and the retired colonel wasdefinitely p.i.s.sed. People dieing p.i.s.sed.

"The Georgian government is balking at letting us use that heavy lift company we used in Albania,"

Nielson said. "Guess why."

"No guesses," Mike said with a sigh. "They're Russians."

"Bingo. I just got off the phone with General Umarov. They're, barely, willing to let us use them to lift us part way in. But the groupcannot be used inside the Pansiki military zone. They can neither be used to extract usnor for dust-off of wounded. No entry. Period."

"What the f.u.c.k do they want us to do?" Mike snapped. "Walk out? With our wounded? Weare going to take casualties on this one."

"I, as calmly as I could, asked the General the same question," Nielson said, his lip really going now.

"And he suggested that he speak with the Kildar."

"Actually said it that way?" Mike asked, trying not to grin.

"Yep," Nielson replied.

"Okay," Mike said, shrugging. "I guess I go put on my Kildar hat."

"General Umarov," Mike said leaning back in his chair. "How good to speak with you again."

"And you Kildar," Umarov replied, his voice a bit taut. "I'm sorry I had to disturb your training schedule: I understand it is rigorous."

"More so, lately," Mike said with a sigh. "I think we need to talk but I'd prefer not over the phone.

However, time is tight. Is there any way you could free up a bird so I'm not on the road four hours in each direction? And, of course, some of your time which is also precious."

"Of course, Kildar," Umarov said. "I'll have it dispatched immediately."

"I'll be ready," Mike said. "We have an LZ set up, now. Down by the Keldara houses. I'll be there."

Mike opened up his closet and contemplated. He'd never had so many clothes in his life. Not only had he, perforce, gotten suits, variously graded depending on who he was meeting with, Anastasia had been shopping for "informal" wear for him. He contemplated the array, reached for his second best suit, then his best suit, then reached all the way over to the side and pulled out a set of digi-cam.

This wasn't his field wear, though. This was the set of "dress" digicam he'd set up more or less on a whim. Modern "developing country" militaries had started to treat camouflage field uniforms as if they were dress uniforms. This probably came from the habit American generals had of almost always appearing in field uniforms. An American general, though, would only wear a couple of his qualification badges, name and branch tags and a shoulder patch on a plain, if well pressed, digicam or BDU uniform.

Filtered through the medium of culture in developing countries, though, and you ended up with something different. The worst had to be "Syrian Commandoes" who had a purple camouflage uniform that would make a peac.o.c.k go "OH MY G.o.d!" And, of course, it had to be bedecked in metals otherwise n.o.body would realize you were a general, right?

Mike had realized at some point he was going to have to tread a fine line. While there were times he was going to have to wear a cammie uniform for more or less "official" reasons, as a SEAL he had a problem.

When SEALs wore field uniforms theymight have a nametag. Otherwise they tended to be pretty bare.

For one thing, everybody on the team knew who you were and what you'd done so you didn't have to cover the d.a.m.ned uniform in qualification badges and gee-gaws. You were a SEAL, who cared if you'd gone to another school, BUD/S was all that mattered. And you didn't have to wear some stupid subdued SEAL badge. You were on the team. Ergo, you'd pa.s.sed BUD/S. Point, set, match.

But if he turned up in a set of sterile cammies, that would send the wrong message. It all came down to politics, something he'd hoped never to have to play. But in his current situation, it was a daily grind.

So he'd set up a set of "dress" cammies, most of it stolen lock-stock-and-barrel from the US Army.

On the right and left shoulders were the snarling tiger face that was the Keldara patch, the left shoulder because he was, by G.o.d, a member and the right because he had, by G.o.d, been in combat ops with them. Over the left one was his Ranger badge from that extended version of h.e.l.l: a fraction as bad as h.e.l.l Week but nine times as long. Under it was a US flag because he was, by G.o.d, still a US citizen. He'd found a subdued SEAL badge and that was on top of his qualification badges. Below that was his HALO badge flanked by Pathfinder. He could put on airborne wings if he wanted, master jumper given the number of times he'd jump-mastered drops.

Figuring out which to put on the Velcro patches had been hard. He'd sat down when he was contemplating the uniform and tried to figure out how many schools he'd gone to, on the side, that would qualify for badges on an Army uniform. In the end he realized that he could basically cover the d.a.m.ned thing. Sometimes he put on the Marine Sniper badge instead of Pathfinder, sometimes he switched both out for Sapper or for SCUBA, having cross-trained in all of them. h.e.l.l might as well put on French Commando school, which was a joke so bad it should be run by Cub Scouts, or Special Boat Squadron which was one kick-your-a.s.s motherf.u.c.ker of a school that should be outlawed under international treaty.

SEAL instructors were supposed to be "broadly and comprehensively trained", said so right in the doc.u.mentation. And their schools budget was huge, comparable to an entire Army division. In every department of the government budgets were the same: Use it or lose it. So the SEALs, especially the instructors, tended to spend two thirds of their time training and the other third... burning off budget. It was amazing how many courses you could pack in in a sixteen year career that had covered most of the time the US was at relative peace.

The toughest part had been figuring out the branch tape and nametag. In the end, the branch tape, where it would say "US Army" or "US Navy" or whatever, simply read "Mountain Tigers" in Georgian. The nametag simply read: Kildar.

He looked at the suits, looked at the dress-cammies and tossed the latter on the bed. Sometimes you just had to dress for success. Politics. What the f.u.c.k had he done to earn politics?

Mike got out of the Expedition and was surrounded by a smaller than normal contingent of children.

From the looks of it most of the older ones were up in the hills picking tiger berries.

It was the time of year that the "secret ingredient" in Keldara beer reached full ripeness. Some of the shrubs had been planted to harvest for the brewery but they hadn't matured enough to provide more than a pittance. There was less than a week when they were ripe and for the Keldara the picking was an all-hands evolution. With the preparations for the mission, they had to be hard pressed to have enough bodies. From the looks of things the kids, down to six or so, had been sent up into the hills.

"Dimi," he said to one of the few of the younger children he recognized. "I need you to find someone to drive the truck back. Can you do that?"

"Yes, Kildar," the boy said, tucking the sweet in his cheek and dashing off.

Mike had about finished pa.s.sing out the candy when he heard an indrawn breath and looked up into Gretchen's face.

"Ah, Gretchen..." Mike said, clearing his throat. "I don't suppose you know how to drive an Expedition?"

"Yes, Kildar, I do," Gretchen said. She was carrying a baby and looked positively beatific despite the thoroughly p.i.s.sed expression on her face. "But there is only one adult here for each Family to watch the children."

"I don't think all the girls up at the castle are fully..." Mike stopped and thought about it. "Yes, they are.

d.a.m.nit. We need more Keldara," he added with a grin.

"Here they are," Gretchen said, gesturing to the children. "Pick the one to drive the car."

"Pa.s.s," Mike said. "I'll pick it up when I get back." He paused and frowned. "I hate to be... How you doing?"

"I am fine, Kildar," Gretchen said. "Except for having twenty brats to keep an eye on."

"How come you got stuck with the duty?" Mike asked.

"Some of the teams are training in the same area as the berry picking," Gretchen said.

Mike had to process that for a second then shook his head.

"And if I was going to be doing anything with my little spare time it would be checking on the teams,"

Mike said. "Not coming down to the houses where I might run into you? And if I'd picked anyone but one of the little kids to go find a driver... They'd have foundanyone but you, right?"

"Did I say that?" Gretchen said, relenting. "It is... good to see you."

"Same here," Mike said, flexing his jaw. "Care to let me in on any of the Mysteries surrounding this? I take it there has been...talk."

"Much," Gretchen said. "And, of course, I'm the last to be informed of any of it. Well..."

"Except for me," Mike said. "What have you heard?"

"Let me see..." Gretchen said, tapping her finger on her lips. "The Kildar is honorable and will not violate the contract between myself and Kiril. The Kildar is human and therefore can only be expected to violate it. I should be sent away, so as to prevent the offense. Kiril should be sent away, there is a group called the... Legion Etran..."

"The Foreign Legion," Mike said, translating it into Keldara. "Over my dead body."

"And then I would be Kildaran," Gretchen said, shrugging.

"Anybody ask you whatyou want?" Mike asked. "I know n.o.body has askedme ."

"It is not the Keldara way," Gretchen said, shaking her head. "The Keldara's fates are chosen by the Elders, not by themselves. Our spouses are chosen, our lots in life. I was picked for neither the intelligence teams nor the mortars. I am one of the few women of my generation who is not contributing, directly, to the teams."

"Why?" Mike asked, frowning. "You're not exactly...dumb."

"Thank youso much for the compliment!" Gretchen snapped.

"That wasn't what I meant and you know it," Mike said. "Why weren't you... You are, in fact, quite bright. You'd make a good contribution to the intel section. What am I missing?"

"I am..." She paused and frowned. "The Mother of a Family is not necessarily married to the Father.

There are some in the Keldara who are spotted for... other needs. Stella... Stella and Lydia, yes, I could see them being Mothers. But it is less likely with Shariya, who is promised to Yosif..."

"Shariyais a mortar girl," Mike said, frowning. "One of the ammo bearers... She's..."

"Sweet," Gretchen said. "Also very simple. Yosif, on the other hand, is very smart and capable. He is the man most likely to be the Devlich Father when his time comes but..."

"Shariya wouldn't make a good Mother," Mike said. "So... you're getting married toKiril who is a Devlich so you transfer tothat Family..."

"And I train as a Mother," Gretchen said, shrugging. "Instead of, you know, something fun orexciting .

And I get to take care of the babies."

"Exceptthat is so that you wouldn't meetme ," Mike said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I appear to have really f.u.c.ked up your existence."

"And have I had no effect on yours?" Gretchen asked.

"If you hadn't, would any of this be going on?" Mike replied at the sound of rotors in the distance.

"Spread the word, quietly. The Kildar is going to be a very good man. He can look you in the face and walk away. He can watch your children grow. He admires Kiril and hopes the best for both of you.

n.o.body should be sent away. Except these children because there is a helicopter about to land on them."

"Yes, Kildar," Gretchen said, frowning slightly.

"I don't think we talked, did we?" Mike asked as the helo descended.

"I don't think so," Gretchen shouted. "But I wish we could..."

Chapter Fifteen.

"General Umarov, good to see you again," Mike said as he was ushered into the general's office by an aide. He hadn't had to wait which he took as a sign. A sign of what, he wasn't too sure.

"And you, Kildar," the general said, walking around his desk to shake Mike's hand. He gestured for Mike to take a seat, ordered coffee and did everything but check to see if Mike needed a blow-job from the secretary.

It was going to be bad.

"How are Galiko and the kids?" Mike asked. Mrs. Umarov had pa.s.sed away before Mike arrived in-country. Galiko was their sole child. She was married to a major in the Georgian National Guard and they had two children that the general doted upon.

"All are well," Umarov replied, nodding. "I will send them your regards."

"Please do," Mike said, taking a sip of coffee. He'd actually become a pretty big tea drinker but since he was American it was a.s.sumed he'd prefer coffee. It wasn't bad, by Georgian standards. "General, we need helicopters to get this plan to work."

"In that you and I agree," Umarov replied with a sigh. "But there are...problems."

"Politics," Mike said. "Is it that they are Russian? I don't, off the top of my head, know of a group besides Birusk Flying Services that can, and will, pick up a company of infantry and take them anywhere close to where they might be shot at. And Birusk isnot Russian government, any more than I am US government."

"And again, you and I agree," Umarov said, shaking his head. "Others do not."

"What others?" Mike asked, blanching. "General, this is no insult to your armed forces but wehave to keep this information very confidential!"

"That is not a problem," the general said, making a placating gesture. "It is, as you would say 'very tightly held'. But the president and the defense ministerhad to be told of what was going on, you know that, yes?"

"Of course," Mike said, nodding. "I cannot disagree at... Oh, c.r.a.p. The defense minister?"

Vakhtang Gelovani was a strong Georgian nationalist who had risen to the rank of major in the Red Army before the fall of the Soviet Union. Of course, that had been over a twenty-five year period. Ethnic Russians had controlled the upper ranks of the Red Army even under Stalin, who was a Georgian.

Anyone non-Rusk rising above colonel was exceedingly rare. He clearly felt that he should have been a general and it was rumored that for that reason he hated and despised all things Russian.

From Mike's perspective, the reason he'd never made general was that Gelovani would barely tie his own shoes. The man was a cla.s.sic case of "active/stupid" if Mike had ever seen one, a micro-manager who had a strong tendency to chooseexactly the wrong course of action and enforce it on subordinates.

And then, as often as not, blame them for the failure.