John Ringo: Kildar

“Food?” Mike asked in Russian. “Beer?” The beer in Russia was generally awful, but he’d never picked up the taste for either the local wines or vodka. Georgia wasn’t noted for its beers either, but he could always hope.

“Stew,” the woman said, nodding. “Or sava . Beer, yes. Bread, cheese?”

“Stew,” Mike said, nodding. “Beer, bread, cheese. What is sava ?”

“Is meat,” the woman said, shrugging. “Is hit.”

Mike wasn’t sure what that meant but he nodded agreement.

“ Sava ,” he said, his stomach rumbling.

“ Ruskiya ?” the woman asked, looking at him curiously.

“American,” Mike said. “Traveling.”

“Speak English,” the woman replied, smiling broadly. “Little.”

“Speak Russian,” Mike said, grinning. “Little. No Georgian.”

“Nobody speak Georgian,” the woman said, smiling still. “Get food, beer.”

“Thank you,” Mike said. “Am very hungry, very tired.”

“Is bed,” the woman said, pointing overhead.

“I accept,” Mike said, nodding. “Petrol?”

“Is down street,” the woman said in English, pointing further into town. “Is close.”

“Not tonight,” Mike said. “Not with this,” he added, waving outside.

The woman chuckled at that and left, headed for the rear. She took the door behind the serving counter so presumably the other door led to “bed.”

Mike spent the time while she was getting his meal to check out the group in the room a bit more carefully. Most of the men were dark and burly from work, and appeared to be mostly drinking beer in tankards rather than wine, which was unusual in the area. There were a few plates around but the general intent seemed to be drinking as if there was no tomorrow. They were checking him out as well but they didn’t seem unfriendly, just curious. They also were generally quiet, most of the talk in low tones.

The exception was a table at the back where a heavyset man with dark hair was holding forth apparently at the top of his lungs. Mike figured he was one of those guys who just always had to talk as if they were shouting from one mountain to another. The three guys gathered at the table had the look of toadies and nodded at everything the man said. He was a bit better dressed than the rest but didn’t exactly look prosperous. Whoever the guy was, he was a pain in the ass. He was loud enough that it made it hard to think and Mike had a lot of thinking to do.

He wasn’t sure where he was headed or what he was going to do. Being rich had always sounded great. And in plenty of ways it was better than being poor. But Mike had always had something that he was working towards. He was used to struggling, pushing his limits, excelling. Now he found himself in a situation where to excel, to stand out, was tantamount to a death sentence. Not only for himself but, potentially, for anyone he was involved with. He’d killed senior terrorists, foiled operations and done it outside the “normal” parameters. Generally, despite their effectiveness, special operations personnel weren’t major targets except “in-country.” Terrorists didn’t, generally, track down and attack spec-ops guys, much less their families. But there were half a dozen fatwahs against him, personally, even if they didn’t know exactly who he was. He needed something to do but at the same time he needed to go to ground. Somewhere that he’d be reasonably secure.

Georgia probably wasn’t the place. The Chechens were starting to use eastern Georgia as their personal stomping grounds and the government was half in shambles. Terrorists, drugs, guns and sex slaves moved through the country in a constant stream. He’d be much better off in a place like, say, Kansas. But the only thing in Kansas was wheat. Okay, and spectacular blondes. But he liked wild countries like Georgia. They just had more soul than Peoria. Or New York, which thought it had soul but didn’t realize it was butter substitute.

Maybe Nepal. Decent army, retired Gurkhas. Find some place like this and settle down until the terrorists either got reduced or found somebody else to target. If they ever forgot the guy called “Ghost.”

The woman came back out bearing a platter covered with mugs and plates. She served the guy at the rear first, handing him and his three cronies mugs, picking up their empties and answering a question directed at her from the man. She answered it loudly enough that most of the people in the tavern could hear it and Mike caught the word “American” among the words.

After that she came over to Mike’s table and set down a mug of beer followed by a bowl of stew and a platter with slices of dark brown bread and yellowish cheese.

“What your name?” the woman asked in English, sitting down and picking up a slice of cheese.

“Mike. What’s yours?”

“Irina,” she answered, considering him curiously. “How you come here?”

“Got lost,” Mike said, shrugging and spooning up some of the stew. It was oddly seasoned but delicious. “Very good stew. Was headed for Bakuriana. Must have taken a wrong turn in the snow. Almost out of petrol.”

“You lucky,” Irina said, shaking her head. “Snow very bad.”

“Very bad,” Mike admitted, nodding. “Good car. Lucky.”

“You stay?” the woman asked.

“Until snow clears,” Mike said. “Roads clear.”

“Hah!” Irina spat, laughing. “Spring.”

“No plows?” Mike asked, surprised.

“Some,” the woman said, shrugging. “Maybe couple weeks. Bad snow. More come.”

“Crap,” Mike said. “I guess I stay.”

“Not much do,” Irina said, gesturing around the room. “Get drunk. Talk. No talk Georgian.”

“Used to being alone,” Mike replied, shrugging. “Have books.”

“I get sava ,” the woman said, standing up.

“Okay.”

Mike ate about half the stew, then picked up the mug of beer, taking a sip. When he did he was pleasantly surprised, pulling it back and looking at it carefully. It was just about the best beer he’d ever had in his life, full and rich without being heavy or bitter. There was just a hint of something other than hops and barley in it but he couldn’t quite place it. It was good enough that he took a deep pull and then set it down. Getting drunk his first night in town wouldn’t be a good idea.

The sava when it was served turned out to be grilled strips of pounded meat, probably mutton, spiced and excellent, something like the meat you got in “gyros” in the States. He recognized some of the same seasoning as the stew. It was one of the better meals he’d had in the last few months.

Mike finished off all the food and the beer and realized he was exhausted. He knew he could keep going for days but it made more sense to get some sleep.

“You said you have a room?” Mike asked when Irina came back filling mugs from a pitcher.

“Upstairs,” she repeated. “Small. Is okay.”

“I think I’ll head up,” Mike said. “How much for the food and beer?”

“One ruble for food,” the woman said. “Three rubles for room. You get bags?”

The combined sum came to about seventy-five cents. If the room even had a bed it was going to be a very cheap place to stay.

“I get bags,” Mike said, pulling out some of the Georgian rubles he’d exchanged for at the border. He handed her five rubles and stood up. “For room and food. And tip. Thank you.”

When he’d gotten his duffel, Irina showed him where the bathroom was and then his room. It was small, at the back of the building and both narrow and low, with a small shuttered window. It was also freezing; there wasn’t any source of heat in the room and the stone walls radiated cold. The bed looked fairly comfortable with newly washed sheets but he knew it was probably filled with bedbugs. The door had a latch, which would last for about one kick. But one kick was about all he’d need if it came to cases.