Kildar Page 10

  "He said you should try using a plow all day," Vil said, flexing thighs that were thick as trees. "And climbing the mountains."

  "That I do," Mike said. "Climbing, that is. But this is for doing what is called circuit work. Trust me, it's better than general farm work and, as you pointed out, I don't do that. Although I'll probably help some, just to get a feel for it. It reminds me of a joke, though."

  "You have good jokes," Dutov said in broken Russian. "Try it."

  "Hmmm, you know anything about American football?" Mike asked.

  "No," Vil said. "I've heard of it, but I've never seen it."

  "Well, take my word for it, it takes big, really strong guys," Mike said. "Oleg might make a decent pro-player, but he's one of the only Keldara I've seen that's big enough."

  "Oleg is an ox," Dutov said, frowning. "Football players are bigger?"

  "And stronger," Mike said. "Trust me. Pro players are fucking monsters. But the joke goes like this. Up until, say, when Father Kulcyanov was young, there were still people in the U.S. that used horses and plows. There was this one team that had really big guys on its line, the guys that have to be really big and strong but don't have to be smart."

  "Oleg is smart," Vil said. "Don't let him fool you."

  "He hasn't," Mike said, smiling. "But the joke about how the team got those guys is that the coach, the boss, would go driving around in the country. When he saw a big guy behind a plow, he'd ask him the way to the nearest city. If they guy stopped plowing and pointed, he'd drive on. He hired the guys that picked up the plow to point."

  "Yes," Vil said, laughing. "Even Oleg would point."

  "Shota would point the plow," Erkin said, shyly.

  "Then we must get Shota on a pro football team," Mike said. He thought he knew which one Shota was, a red-headed monster even bigger than Oleg but with a very placid nature. He moved well, though, and he looked fast.

  "Dutov," Mike said, standing up and stretching his joints. "I hereby promote you to assembler of Nautilus machines. I'm going to go find out what crashing emergency has occurred while I've been down here. Don't work on this too late, and expect to come back tomorrow to finish, okay?"

  "Yes, Kildar, is very okay," Dutov said, looking up at him with a grin.

  * * *

  "I like the Kildar," Erkin said after Mike was gone.

  "So do I," Vil admitted. "But I'm interested in finding out what will happen that he will not promise."

  * * *

  When Mike made his way back up to the ground floor, he found Mother Savina waiting for him.

  "Was a call on your satellite phone," Mother Savina said. "Colonel Pierson. He asked you to call him back."

  "Thank you, Mother," Mike replied, sighing. "I wonder what he wants now?"

  * * *

  "What now, Bob?" Mike asked when the scrambler was in place.

  "You sound tired," Pierson said. "Too many women?"

  "None at all, unfortunately," Mike admitted. "Seriously, what's up?"

  "A little bird suggested that you take a ride over to Tbilisi, tomorrow," Pierson said. "There's a meeting tomorrow with Ambassador Wilson, ours, Ambassador Krepkina, Russia, our military attaché, the Russian military attaché and a couple of Georgians. The Russians just intercepted a big group of Chechens that were planning on replicating Breslan. And they intercepted them exiting Georgia. Actually, although the Georgians don't know this, the Spetznaz team was on the Georgian side of the border. The Russians are getting ready to do a Cambodian invasion on Georgia, and the Georgians are making big talk. I think your intent to form a militia group in the area can possibly calm things down. At least it's something."

  "Would the little bird be a black guy of Jamaican extraction?" Mike asked. "Or a cowboy from Texas?"

  "Both," Pierson replied. "The Russians are taking their new preemption doctrine to consider Georgia fair game. In a way, I don't blame them; Georgia is a haven for the Chechens. But it's not Georgia's fault; they're trying. They just don't have the funding, the training or the manpower."

  "Bob, all I'm forming is a company of light infantry for local defense," Mike pointed out. "I can't solve the Russians' problems for them."

  "But you are intending to shut down Chechen operations in your area, right?"

  "To the extent that I can," Mike said. "Yes. I don't like any Islamic group, you know that and you know why."

  "Just tell them what you intend," Pierson said. "That may mollify the Russians enough to get them to back off. They don't really want to have a border war with Georgia; they've got too much on their plate in Chechnya. If they can see any glimmer of hope, they'll probably snap at it. Even if they don't appear to at the time, we'll be dropping hints in their ears at higher levels. Just go to the meeting, okay?"

  "Okay," Mike said, sighing. "I don't have a suit, though."

  "Just be yourself," Pierson said, chuckling. "You've talked to the President in shorts before, a Russian ambassador is nothing."

  "The President expected shorts," Mike pointed out. "And you know I'm not diplomatic."

  "Just be yourself," Pierson repeated. "You'll do fine."

  Chapter Eight

  Mike had had to get up at o-dark-thirty to make the nine AM meeting in Tbilisi. He'd brought Vil, who said he could drive the Mercedes in case he had to have it move around. As he pulled up at the gates of the embassy, just short of nine, he shook his head.

  "I don't have a way to contact you," he said.

  "I wait here," Vil replied. "If you leave, I follow."

  "Just make sure the protection guys know that," Mike said, as they pulled up to the gates of the embassy.

  The American Embassy to the Republic of Georgia looked like half the American embassies in the world. It was an old house, very large and rambling, that had been fortified with solid concrete barriers all around. Getting to the gates required driving through a serpentine series of turns and when they got there, they were surrounded by armed guards. One of the Marines, in dress greens, carrying a clipboard and wearing a side arm, stepped up to the door as Mike rolled down the window.

  "Mike Jenkins," he said, handing the Marine his passport. "I've got a meeting with Ambassador Wilson at nine. This is my driver, Vil, a Georgian citizen."

  "Yes, sir, you're on the list," the Marine lance corporal said. "If you don't mind, could you pop the trunk for inspection?"

  "Got it," Mike said, hitting the latch.

  In a few minutes the car was passed through. He carefully followed the Marine's directions to a parking area and slid into a spot designated for Distinguished Visitors.

  "You're going to have to wait at the car," Mike said as he got out. "It might be a long time. Don't go wandering. I'll try to get someone to come out and tell you where the can is and stuff."

  "I'll be fine," Vil said, sliding over to the driver's seat and reclining it. "Very comfortable. Better than working the farm."

  Mike went to the front entrance where another Marine escorted him to a conference room. When he got there, there were two men in suits and one Army colonel in dress greens already present.

  "Mr. Jenkins," a short, pleasant faced man said, stepping over to shake Mike's hand. "I'm Ambassador Wilson."

  "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ambassador," Mike said, nodding. "Sorry about how I'm dressed but I didn't expect to be doing diplomatic work." He'd dressed in jeans and a safari jacket for the meeting, just about the most formal clothes he had.

  "Not a problem. Your reputation precedes you," the ambassador said, cryptically. "Let me introduce Colonel Mandell and Mr. Steinberg. Colonel Osbruck is the senior military attaché to the embassy and Mr. Steinberg is our intelligence representative."

  "Gentlemen," Mike said, shaking hands. "Pleasure to meet you."

  "I see the SEALs are on the case," Colonel Mandell said, smiling. He was a tall, slim officer with cropped hair and a straight back.

  "I'm just a common citizen," Mike replied, shaking his head. "Don't get all hoo-yah on me."


  "Yes, of course," Mr. Steinberg said with a slight New York accent. He was a tad taller than the ambassador, with dark hair and eyes and a hooked nose. "As the ambassador said, your reputation precedes you."

  "I hope not," Mike replied, his face hard. "If it does, I'm going to be very pissed at some people in Washington. Define reputation, if you will."

  "We were simply told that at times you've done significant service for the United States government," the ambassador said, placatingly. "Specifics were not mentioned. What was mentioned was that quite often you tend to have an effect that is . . . how was it put? An effect that is far greater than could be anticipated. We hope that such will be the case here."

  "Mr. Ambassador," a man said, sticking his head in the room. "The Russians are here and so is Colonel Kortotich and Mr. Svirska."

  "The colonel and I need to go greet them," the ambassador said. "Mr. Jenkins, if you'll take the assigned seat we'll be right back."

  Mike took the seat indicated by Mr. Steinberg as the two left the room and shrugged.

  "I think this is ritual dick-beating, am I right?"

  "Maybe," Steinberg said, grabbing his own chair. "But . . . your reputation precedes you with the Russians. I'm not sure what these Russians know, but Putin, at least, knows about the Paris operation and that you were the primary operator on it. And from what I've been told, he has at least told these guys that you're not just some Joe-Schmoe. I don't think the ambassador or the colonel knows that and I haven't been told they have need-to-know. The call from the secretary of state was probably enough for both of them."

  "Interesting," Mike said. "Especially since the secretary and I are not mutual admirers. He considers me a bit of a loose cannon."

  "You are a loose cannon," Steinberg said. "But you're remarkably targeted for a loose cannon. As long as you keep that up, people will think you're golden. Screw up once, though, and you'll find yourself out in the cold in a heartbeat."

  "Thanks for the pep talk," Mike said dryly.

  "I was told you were a no-bullshit kind of guy," Steinberg replied. "I can blow smoke up your ass if you'd prefer."

  Mike just chuckled and stood up as the door opened.

  There were four men with the ambassador, one in Georgian uniform, one in Russian uniform and two guys in suits who could have been twins. They didn't look alike facially, but their expressions, build and suits were identical.

  "Ambassador Krepkina, Deputy Secretary Svirska, Colonels Kortotich and Skachko, Mr. Steinberg, the embassy's intelligence officer and Mr. Jenkins, an American citizen currently resident in Georgia," Ambassador Wilson said.

  "Am pleased to meet you," the Russian ambassador said, shaking Mike's hand. "President Putin has good things to say about you as does Colonel Chechnik of the president's office."

  "How is he?" Mike asked.

  "Very well," the ambassador replied. "He sends his regards and hopes that you can in some way improve the situation."

  "That's what we're here to talk about," Mike said, cautiously.

  "Something must be done," Colonel Kortotich said, darkly.

  "Gentlemen, let's take our seats before we begin arguing, shall we?" Ambassador Wilson said as the Georgian colonel darkened.

  "I could do a long preamble," Wilson said when everyone was seated. "But I won't. What I'm going to do is let Mr. Steinberg explain why Mr. Jenkins' plans may, and I stress may have a salient effect on the current situation. Mr. Steinberg?"

  "Mike, you got any idea what a functional militia in your area will do to the Chechens?" Steinberg said, standing up and going to a map on the wall.

  "No," Mike admitted. "Let's get something straight up front. Okay, apparently most of the people in the room know that I've got some enemies. Specifically among Islamic terrorists. I settled where I settled because I liked the area and I especially liked the little fort I bought. I'm going to form a militia because the people in the area need some relief from the Chechens, who are apparently running rampant. And because I could use some gun-bunnies around. But I hadn't planned on crushing the Chechen forces in the area. The Red Army can't do that in Chechnya and the Georgian army can't do that in Georgia."

  "The Chechens are not running rampant—" Colonel Skachko said, angrily.

  "The hell they aren't," Colonel Kortotich snapped back. "You have no control over the eastern—"

  "Wait," Steinberg said, holding up a hand and looking at the Georgian representatives. "Let's get something straight. We're here to talk reality. The Chechens use eastern Georgia, and especially the Pankisi Gorge, as a safe base. We know it, the Russians know it, the Chechens know it. That is a fact and all the posturing you can do in the world won't change it. By the same token, you're unable, not unwilling unable to change that fact. Georgia doesn't have the funds or the resources to comb them out or even cut down on their movement. We know it, the Russians know it, the Chechens know it. In Russia's case, they can't gain full control of Chechnya, so you guys," he said, nodding at the Russians, "need to keep in mind that with fewer resources, the Georgians aren't in a position to do more than you have done. The U.S. has been helpful in training Georgian special operations, but we can't fund the entire Georgian army; we've got too many other irons in the fire and too many political constraints. Also facts. What we're here to discuss is what Mr. Jenkins can do about those facts and why, by a stroke of luck or genius, he picked a very good place to do it. Can I continue?"

  "Go ahead," the Russian ambassador said, evenly.

  "As I said, the primary Chechen bases are in the Pankisi Gorge," Steinberg said, pointing to the deep rift in southeast Georgia. "From the Gorge they can move into Chechnya through a series of old smuggler paths. But the Gorge has no industry and damned little in the way of agriculture. So they have to get all their support from elsewhere, notably by moving it through Georgia."

  "We have tried to stop this . . ." Colonel Skachko said with a sigh.

  "How hard?" Colonel Kortotich snapped.

  "Gentlemen," Ambassador Wilson said, sharply.

  "You have tried to stop it," Steinberg admitted. "But you've had the same lack of success that the Russians have and for the same reasons. I won't get into the reasons at the moment—"

  "Because when you hit a checkpoint if you pass the guards a few rubles they wave you through," Mike said, folding his arms. "I think you said something about no bullshit."

  "And you can change this?" Colonel Skachko snapped.

  "I don't know," Mike admitted. "But it's going to be interesting the first time one of the Keldara does it. For him."

  "The point is that while there is effective control over Chechen movement, in general, in the Tbilisi valley," Steinberg continued, calmly, "there is very little control over areas outside the central authority's region. A great degree of the reason for this is simply lack of forces, rather than low-scale corruption. But the amount of material that has to move, drugs and women out for sale and then guns back using both currency from the sales and external sources of funds—"

  "And when are the Americans going to get the Saudis to stop funding these fucking black asses?" Colonel Kortotich asked, angrily.

  "After we've changed regimes in Iran and Syria," Mike said. "At a guess. If you want the timetable moved up, you might suggest to your government that when we target a country, they help rather than hinder. Not mentioning any names, Iraq!" he added with a cough, covering his mouth.

  "Mr. Jenkins," the ambassador said, sternly.

  "Look," Mike replied, angrily. "I told everybody and their brother I'm not a fucking diplomat. Maybe I can be of some help. But I'm not going to promise anything and I'm tired of ritual dick-beating. Let Steinberg finish his dog and pony and I'll get back to doing something. Okay?"

  The Russian ambassador held up his hand to stifle the colonel and then nodded at Steinberg. "Please, continue."

  "If you look at this series of valleys leading from the Gorge," Steinberg said, pointing at the map, "you'll notice that they funnel towards Aler
rso. Mike, did you know that that pass you're in has been a caravan route since time immemorial?"

  "I'm living in a caravanserai," Mike pointed out, dryly. "It's fairly obvious."

  "Until the major road was built to Tbilisi, Alerrso was the primary route through Georgia," Steinberg said. "And it's, currently, the route of choice for Chechen movement. If you set up a functional militia, that regains control of that area, you'll be cutting their throats."

  "And they'll respond," Mike said, frowning. "I'm going to be six months forming a militia up to the point I think they should be. We're not going to be doing a lot of interdiction during that time. And I'm only looking at a company of light infantry who are going to be part-time. I'll choke what I can, when I can, but I'm not going to guarantee to stop everything. And what I'll be doing, the Russians will never see." He looked over at the two and shrugged. "I mean, all you'll be getting is negative data. Some attacks will still come through and every attack that gets through I don't want you guys blaming on me."