John Ringo: Kildar

After Irina had left he stripped the sheets and blankets off the bed and sprayed the mattress and sheets with bedding spray, covering all the surfaces until they were slightly wet and paying special attention to the seams. He then rolled out the small sleeping bag in his duffel on the mattress. He dumped his duffel on top of the bag and then sprayed the floor thoroughly with insect spray, hoping to get most of the fleas. He’d lived in enough third-world hovels in the service to know the creepy-crawlies you got in places like this. Last he pulled the pillowcase off the pillow, sprayed the pillow thoroughly and covered it with a case he carried. He’d gotten lice one time in Thailand and had a mordant fear of the damned things. Fleas and bedbugs just left you with bites; lice stayed around forever.

All that done he changed into a set of sweats and socks, slid his .45 under the pillow, slipped into the fart sack and drifted off to sleep in a haze of chemical protectants.

Mike had a hard time orienting himself the next morning. The room was dark and cold and there wasn’t much in the way of sounds. There was a faint light coming from the cracks in the shutters, though, and after a moment he could recall the night before. He lay in bed for a moment, dreading the cold, then rolled out of the fart sack.

The stone floor was freezing, even through the wool socks he was wearing, but he ignored it, grabbed his money-belt, pistol and jump bag and headed for the bathroom.

The bathroom was small and intensely European. The shower was on a long hose with nowhere to hang it and all the fixtures looked as if they were from an American home in the 1930s, but he’d gotten used to that. He performed his morning ablutions, careful not to drink the water and washing his mouth out with a small bottle of bourbon after brushing, then headed back to his room. He considered repacking but given the weather report, and the brief glance he’d gotten out the window in the bathroom, he wasn’t leaving anytime soon. So he dressed warmly, holstered his pistol, grabbed his jump bag and headed downstairs.

There was a young, good-looking girl — brunette and just starting to bloom — sweeping the tavern when he walked in. She was startled by his appearance, letting out a tiny squeak of surprise, then nodding and darting into the back room. Mike took a seat by the potbellied stove in the empty room and waited in hopes of service.

After a moment a short, slim man came out of the back, wiping his hands on an apron.

“I’m Stasys,” the man said in Russian, shaking Mike’s hand. “I own place and cook. You like room?”

“Very nice,” Mike said, surreptitiously scratching where one of the fleas had gotten him despite his precautions.

“You want food?”

“Please,” Mike replied. “Any coffee?” He could smell food and bread being cooked, but not a trace of coffee smell.

“Tea?” Stasys asked. “Bread?”

“Tea, bread and sava ?” Mike asked. What he really wanted was three eggs, over medium, bacon and hash browns. But only Americans and Brits ate like that for breakfast.

“Yes, I get,” Stasys said, going back in the kitchen.

The shutters had been thrown back and Mike could see the storm had passed over. There was still a light snow falling and it looked as if quite a bit had been dumped during the night. He wondered, briefly, about the additional snow Irina had mentioned. The way things were it looked as if he wouldn’t be able to leave before spring.

As the tea, bread and sava were being served by the girl, the door to the room opened and a man in a long wool coat stomped in, kicking the snow off his boots and saying something in Georgian to the girl. He was tall and slender with a slim, intelligent face and wearing a uniform cap. When he pulled off the coat it revealed the uniform of the local constabulary and from the cut and tailoring Mike guessed he was a senior officer.

“Hello,” the man said, coming over to Mike’s table and sitting down. “You would be the American called Mike. I am Captain Vadim Tyurin, the constabulary commander for the Keldara.” The man spoke excellent English with hardly any accent except of Oxford.

“Mike Jenkins,” Mike said, shaking his hand. “Care for some tea?”

“Vyera is getting me a cup,” Vadim said, smiling. “Coming right to the point, though, I don’t suppose I could see some identification?”

Mike smiled back and dug in his pocket, pulling out his entirely false passport for Mike Jenkins. It was only false in that it wasn’t his real name; it had been issued by the American government with all due forms.

“Sorry for that,” Vadim said, handing it back after a careful study. “It’s very unusual for us to get Americans, or any foreigners, in the Keldara. What brings you here?”

“I got lost,” Mike said as the girl, presumably Vyera, brought out another cup and saucer and set it in front of the policeman. “I was headed for Bakuriana and I guess I took a wrong turn. I’m not even sure where I’m at.”

“You are, in fact, nowhere,” Vadim replied, shrugging and pouring tea. “The Keldara is pretty remote even in Georgia. With the exception of the Six Families it’s rather sparsely populated. Which means the damned Chechens have the run of it. I’m supposed to be up here to disprove their ownership, but with only three subordinates that’s rather hard.”

“No funds?” Mike asked.

“Apparently not,” the policeman said, taking a sip of the tea. “The Chechens run drugs, mostly opium, through the mountains and pick up many of their sex slaves in this area. Then they sell them in various places, use the money to buy guns and run them back through. They even force the locals to give them food and money. If they don’t they burn down the farms and kill the farmers, taking the prettier girls for their sex slave rings. I’ve tried to form local militias, again no funds. It requires more than just giving them guns; if that’s all you do the Chechens just ‘inherit’ them.”

“Sounds frustrating,” Mike said. “And a tad dangerous for the local police representative.”

“Not so much,” Vadim said, deprecatingly. “Since it is quite impossible, I simply don’t try. Much safer all around.”

“And if it was possible?” Mike asked.

“Oh, then I’d be quite interested,” the Georgian said, narrowing his eyes. “The most frustrating aspect is the lack of authority and the responsibility. I’d like to discharge my responsibilities, but without the funding, it’s quite impossible.” He regarded Mike carefully and then shrugged again. “The subject has, I’m told, come to the attention of the American government. Russia has threatened to enter this part of Georgia and ‘clean it up,’ as if they could do any better than they have done in Chechnya. But the possibility of a border war with two countries that are nominal allies has the American government upset, or so I’m told. Which is why I wonder how you came here, really.”

“Ah,” Mike said, grinning. “I really got lost. I’m not a representative of the American government. Truly.”

“Very well,” Vadim said, sighing. “It was too much to hope, I suppose, that we might actually get some help.”

“I’m just traveling,” Mike said, shrugging. “Looking for someplace to settle for a while, I guess.”

“You are unable to settle in the United States?” Vadim said, warily.

“Oh, I could,” Mike said, hastily. “I just like… call it the wilder places. But a region that’s about to have a border war with Russia might be a bit too wild. I’ll probably just stick around until the roads get cleared, then pass on.” He paused and frowned. “I met some of the people down in the valley, asking directions. They seem…”