John Ringo: Choosers of the Slain

“Send.”

Oleg Kulcyanov’s eyes flew open as a buzzer went off beside his bed and the monitor of the computer turned on, flooding the darkened room with light. The printer started spitting out sheets as he rolled to his feet, rubbing his eyes. Another damned drill.

Oleg Kulcyanov was nineteen, a huge bull of a man with a shock of nearly white hair. His great grandfather, Mecheslav Kulcyanov was the head of the Kulcyanov Family. His grandfather had died in a logging accident before Oleg was born. His father was probably going to be the next head of the Kulcyanov Family and in time Oleg would probably succeed him.

While he had been in electric light from time to time in town, until recently he had never considered that he, himself, might live in a house with electricity. He had never seen anyone operate a computer until last February when the Kildar arrived. He had certainly never believed he would use one.

But the Kildar had arrived in the valley like a whirlwind. Before they had assimilated the arrival of a newcomer to the area the Kildar had bought the valley from the bank, and their service with it. More changes started coming with increasing speed: new vehicles, tractors, medical care. Then the trainers had arrived and suddenly the Keldara found their true purpose returning. For the Keldara were warriors at heart.

Oleg went to church every Sunday but the Keldara were not truly Christian. They cloaked themselves in the mantle of that faith, but they had retained their true allegiance through the years, to The All Father One-Eye, to his son Frei the Lord of the Axe, to the Old Gods. They had held true to their faith through generation after generation, working as farmers as the only way to survive but never losing their faith that some day the Way of War would return. And the Kildar had brought it back.

Oleg knew that the Kildar was not a god, but many of the Keldara regarded him as one, an avatar of Frei perhaps. He was certainly a warrior among warriors, as he had proven again and again. And Oleg was willing to follow the Kildar to anywhere in the wide world, for he knew that the Kildar would always lead them on the path of war, where a Keldara could truly be a servant of Frei.

As he read the form on the computer screen he grinned. Finally, it was time to go to war.

He reached out and hit the red button over his bed, then stood up and picked up the papers that had finished spitting out of the printer.

The button activated the lights in the squad bay beyond his room and started a high-toned pinging that was interspersed with a recording by Lydia, Oleg’s fiancée.

“Arise, Keldara! Enemies are at the door! Prepare for battle and the day of red war! Bring us scalps!”

Oleg had been sleeping in his uniform pants and a T-shirt. He slid his feet into zipper tac-boots and zipped them up, then threw on his uniform jacket, striding out of the room.

Dmitri Devlich, his team second, was just finished zipping his boots as Oleg stepped into the squad bay. The rest of the team was mostly on its feet, putting on their boots and jackets, as the recording continued.

“Battle this day for honor and the Keldara! Be true to your comrades and warriors born!”

Oleg handed Dmitri the sheets detailing each man’s load-out and mission. The sheets were arranged in the same pattern as the squad bay, so all Dmitri had to do was go down the length of the bay handing them out. Each sheet had a picture of the individual squad member, the weapon and ammunition load they were to draw, a list of materials they were to carry and a general mission order including the paragraph Gildana had written about the current enemy conditions.

As soon as Oleg had passed off the sheets he read the section detailing his responsibilities and walked back to his room. He pulled out the correct map-set, checked to make sure it was actually the right one and started buttoning his uniform tunic while rereading the mission orders.

As he was rereading, Givi Kulcyanov came in the room, buckling on his gear and carrying Oleg’s in his arms.

“Simple mission,” the radio telephone operator said, handing Oleg his body armor and combat vest. Givi was a cousin rather than a brother as the name would imply but they had known each other their whole lives.

“We don’t know if this is the only group of Chechens in the area,” Oleg pointed out. “And we don’t know what will be waiting for us in the trucks. It might be simple and it might be very hard indeed.”

“You’re always a pessimist,” Givi said, grinning.

“I’m always a realist,” Oleg replied, throwing his armor over his head and buckling it on. “That’s why I’m the team leader.”

When he got to the squad bay most of the team had moved down to the armory to draw their weapons. Their prepacked rucksacks were by the door and as each man drew his weapons for the mission they added them to the load, moving out the door to the waiting vehicles.

Oleg drew an SPR and a .45 caliber silenced pistol, checking each, then slipping in a magazine. Last he put the weapons on safe and picked up his ruck, heading for the door.

Dmitri was by the door as he went out, checking each weapon to see that no one had loaded a live round, yet, and that all weapons were on safe.

“You’re the last out,” Dmitri said.

“Load it,” Oleg replied, heading for his vehicle. “Givi, call in that we’re loaded and preparing to roll. Then give them roll time.”

“Roger,” Givi said.

“I make it as seven minutes, more or less,” Dmitri said, climbing in the passenger side of his Expedition. His would be the last vehicle out of the compound. Oleg would be in vehicle three of the five. The lead vehicle traveled well forward of the convoy as a point in case of ambush.

“Agreed,” Oleg said, getting in his own vehicle. “Let’s roll.”

Mike crouched by the side of the trail as the team passed. He was both pleased and pissed that not one of them noticed him. He’d intended to close from the rear and call in before contacting the team but had accidentally gotten ahead of them. He was pleased that he hadn’t lost the ability to be virtually invisible in the brush and that nobody had reacted to the figure by the side of the trail by fragging him. On the other hand, he was pissed that the Keldara, and even McKenzie, had just walked right past him. If he’d been an enemy they’d be in a world of hurt.

Part of the reason they hadn’t noticed him, he had to admit, was his camouflage. From the first he’d determined that the Keldara would have only the best equipment and he’d paid through the nose for it. The camouflage uniform, in particular, had been costly. There was an Italian firm that produced digi-cam, digitally enhanced camouflage, in virtually any pattern. The first uniforms he’d ordered had been standard digi-cam, U.S. military issue. But they hadn’t, in his opinion, been perfect for the local terrain. The U.S. digi-cam was designed to blend the wearer in any condition from city to mountain to desert. It wasn’t “dialed” for pure mountain/forest conditions.

The Italian firm had sent him several sets of digi-cam in various shades and patterns until he found one that he liked. Then he’d outfitted the Keldara in that. It had been expensive as hell, though. Besides the custom camouflage pattern, the fabric was comfortable, conformable and fire resistant. Each uniform cost about three times that of a standard U.S. digi-cam uniform, but he figured it was worth it. The Keldara were limited in number and were his primary outer defense. Besides, they were friends.

He let the last member of the team, who was correctly checking his back trail, pass by and then stepped out onto the trail. When the Keldara’s back was turned, he crouched and let out a slight “psst.”