John Ringo: Choosers of the Slain

The intel specialist was in an open hole about thirty meters from the road about halfway up the switchbacks. Mike could hear the trucks approaching down the grade as they got to the position.

“Good morning, Kildar,” the young woman said, smiling at him in the faint predawn light. She had light red hair that was tied in a bun under her boonie cap and, like all the Keldara women, was almost startlingly beautiful. She looked like an out-of-place fairytale princess dressed in digi-cam.

“What did you bring?” Mike asked curiously.

“Intercept and jamming gear,” the girl said, waving at a blinking box at her feet. “And an umbrella mike so we can overhear their conversation.”

“Great,” Mike said, picking up the directional microphone and waving it towards the waiting Keldara. However, all he could hear from the troops awaiting the trucks was breathing. The Keldara were almost scary. They’d lived together so long that they could communicate at a level that sometimes seemed like telepathy. He saw one of them turn and look at another and make a chin gesture, which was all it took for the other two to redeploy.

The trucks were making too much noise at this range for him to overhear the drivers but he saw them brake as the Keldara in the chicken pit lit off a magnesium flare.

“Five gets you ten they try to run,” McKenzie said, peering through a night scope.

“No transmission from the lead truck,” Lilia said, looking at her scopes. “No transmissions at all.”

“Start jamming on all non-Keldara freqs,” Mike said, crouching down and directing the microphone at the trucks, trying to pick up chatter.

“The driver of the lead truck just asked the guy next to him something,” McKenzie said.

“Saw that,” Mike replied, directing the microphone at them. But there was still too much noise from the truck motor for him to hear anything useful. The passenger in the lead truck took his time answering, though. And when he said something, the truck pulled forward.

“Okay, the passenger in the lead is a leader,” the Kildar said. “Get that out to the trooops. I’d like him alive.”

“Yes, Kildar,” Dmitri said, keying his communications.

“What is this?” the driver of the lead truck demanded as he pulled up next to the small timber and sandbag bunker placed in the middle of the road.

“Inspection for contaband,” Juris Makanee said, easily. “Proceed one vehicle at a time around the barriers. If more than one truck enters the barrier area both will be fired upon. Stop halfway down the barriers for preinspection, then you can proceed to the final block for clearance.”

“I’m sure that something can be arranged,” the driver said, handing over his license with a folded bill behind it.

Juris looked at the license as he absently handed the fifty ruble note back.

“You’re cleared to move to the next check point,” Juris said, looking the man in the eye. He wasn’t Russian or Georgian, probably a black-ass Chechen bastard. But the orders were to stop and inspect, not shoot them out of hand as he’d prefer. “And if you try to bribe the next guard, he’ll put a bullet through your head. Move out.”

The driver angrily put the truck in gear and jerked forward as Juris waved for the next truck to stop.

“Checkpoint,” Mikhail Solovi said, looking across the compartment at Vyatkin.

Vyatkin put his head out the flap of the military truck and looked at the setup.

“This isn’t Georgian National Guard, whoever it is,” Vyatkin said, sitting back down and looking at the Chechen black-asses in the back of the truck. “Who is it?”

“Keldara,” one of them said, frowning. “I told Mashadem we couldn’t move through here, but they wouldn’t listen.”

“Are these the new militia in the area?” Solovi asked, shaking his head. “Bribe them.”

“They won’t take bribes,” one of the Chechens said, fingering his AK. “They are led by an American, the Kildar. They are very loyal. We are totally fucked. They don’t take prisoners.”

“There were only five I saw,” Vyatkin said, looking at Solovi.

“There will be more hidden around the checkpoint,” Solovi said. “We need to not be caught in this, Eduard.”

“Agreed,” Vyatkin said, looking at the Chechens. “You never saw us, understand?”

“Have a good walk back to Russia,” the Chechen said as the two dropped over the back of the truck. “You Russian bastards,” he added when they were out of sight.

“Interesting,” Mike said. The reception at the back of the trucks was clear as gin. “The last vehicle’s filled with troops. Two guys just jumped off the back. Let them get in the woods and then tell Sawn I want them both alive. When the first truck has been checked for explosives, let the second one up to the midpoint check point. Check it while the first one is being cleared, then engage. Blow the shit out of the trail truck, but just kill the drivers of the other two and take down the passengers. I want all that done in one hit.”

“Understood, Kildar,” Dmitri said, keying his communicator.

“We’re clear,” Vyatkin said, stopping to pant.

“You are out of shape, Eduard,” Solovi said, looking back at the trucks. The lead truck had reached the final checkpoint and he briefly considered whether they should have stayed in the truck. But not even the stupidest guard could miss the armed Chechens in the rear truck. They had supposedly been “guarding” them on the way to the meeting, but they’d spent most of their time being as insulting as they could manage in a hamfisted way.

As Mikhail watched, the militiaman searching the second truck climbed out of the back and walked over to the driver’s side. As soon as he reached it, there was a series of pops and the passenger side doors were yanked open by more guards who dragged the occupants out and threw them on the ground. The drivers were clearly dead.

Before the Chechen guards in the trailing truck could react, RPG rounds slammed out from both sides of the road, turning the rear of the trucks into burning shrapnel. The Chechens who made it out of the back were quickly silenced by heavy fire from machine guns, their bodies dancing as the bullets slammed into them from either side.

“ Yob tvoyu mat ,” Eduard whispered, looking at the carnage.

“Set up,” Mikhail said, angrily. “They knew we were coming. There must be a platoon hidden in those trees.”

“Closer to a company, actually,” a voice said from behind them.

“Fuck.”

“This situation brings out the cliché in me,” Mike said, gazing in wonder at the two Russians. “But I’ll try to leave it at one. I’ve got a gun, a backhoe and over a thousand hectares to get rid of the bodies. So why don’t you just tell me what you’re doing here and I’ll be up by a couple of bullets and some diesel on the deal.”

“You’re American,” Mikhail said, sneeringly. “You won’t kill us. Just call the damned Georgians and turn us over to them.”

“You’re so sure of that, tovarisch,” Mike said, drawing his .45. “Okay, two clichés. I’ll try to keep it down. Last chance.”

“You’re not going to…” Mikhail said, just as the Kildar, without looking, pointed the weapon and shot Vyatkin through the knee.

As the screaming man fell back on the hold of his two Keldara handlers, Mike pointed the weapon at his head.

“This is the deal,” Mike said. “I was listening to you in the truck, so I know you’re the leader, ‘Mikhail.’ So why don’t you keep your fat friend from having his head blown off, and various unpleasantries to you, by telling me why a couple of Russian hitters are traveling with Chechens.”