about?'
Terry nodded and called out, 'Konstantin, come meet Harry Gordon; you and he are going to be working together.'
''Working together?'' Gordon asked as the Russian ambled over.
'Part of Victor's contribution to the war effort,' Welch explained. 'Konstantin and his men are going to help you with transshipment.'
'Some of the equipment is coming in mixed, disassembled, hidden, what have you,' Konstantin said. 'We know how most of it goes together. After all, we've been doing this with Victor for quite some time now. I think you'll find we are useful.'
'Can you and your men drive?' Gordo asked. 'Can you drive the way they do here, which is to say like maniacs?'
'Ever been to Moscow, Mr. Gordon? Or should I use your former rank?'
'We're all misters or first names here,' Gordon replied, shooting Terry a dirty look for his previous use of Konstantin's rank. 'Later on, and further south, we can expect to have a more military social hierarchy.'
'Works for me,' Konstantin answered.
'Good. Anyway, Terry, you and your boys fly out tonight via one of our Pilatus Porters. The people who didn't go to Myanmar are waiting for you at the camp, down south.
'In the interim, there's a safe house between town and the airport. You'll go there and, I guess, that's where the Russians can stay. At least until I work out something better. The safe house is close to Barama Company, with which we've had some useful dealings. Enjoy.'
'Useful dealings?' Welch asked.
'They've given us secure computer time and office space, plus access to their truck fleet. We've told some of the bureaucrats hustling them for bribes that death ends all need for money,' Gordo said. You're not the only type of soldiers that know how to make a credible threat of violence.
D-101, Helmdon, Northampton, United Kingdom
Sergeant Victor Babcock-Moore, black, and Captain Gary Trim, white, both late of Her Majesty's Royal Engineers ('With the rank and pay of a sapper!'), took turns ground-guiding and backing the armored cars into their shipping containers, three to a box. The Ferrets were angular little things; at about two meters by two meters by four, they weren't so very much larger than a normal SUV, and rather smaller than some such. Indeed, they were dwarfed by some SUVs, most notably the Chevy Suburban. On the plus side, a Suburban could fit upwards of nine. A Ferret was cozy for two, with their personal gear and the ammunition.
Armored against small arms fire up to 7.62, the scout cars carried a sting of their own in their small, one man, turrets. That is to say, these used to carry a sting. They would again, too, as soon as they were taken to Brazil and modified back. Even then, though, they'd be carrying Russian PKM machine guns rather than the .30 caliber Browning. Exactly how the different guns were to be mounted was still a matter of some conjecture.
Trim and Babcock-Moore had had one task to accomplish before booking a flight for Georgetown, whence to be flown somewhere further on to take up a position as assistant engineer and section sergeant to a small group being assembled for mission or missions unknown. That job had been to inspect and, if found serviceable, buy and ship onward nine Ferret scout cars, Mark II or higher. In this Babcock-Moore had been of rather greater use than had Trim, since the sergeant had actually been a Ferret driver early on in his career.
It had been Babcock who'd known to jack up first one side and then the other of each vehicle, turning the forward wheels by hand to ensure the rear wheels on the same sides turned as well. On one occasion Babcock had pronounced, 'Blown bevel box, sir. They'll have to replace it before we can take delivery.' Babcock had said it, as he pronounced everything, in an accent sufficiently superior to Trim's own that had they not been old comrades and friends the former officer might just have been insulted. Instead, given that the sergeant was an immigrant from Jamaica, Trim found it highly amusing. It had been even more amusing when Trim had been a mere subaltern, but the song-'Why can't the English teach their children how to speak?'-had eventually gotten a bit old.
Likewise it had been Babcock who taught Trim how to start the things properly, a complex procedure for what was supposed to be a very simple machine. Babcock, too, had explained that except for hills and such, it was better to start in second gear, that the gear change pedal was not a clutch-'And for God's sake, sir, don't use it as one.'
The engines had all been Rolls-Royce and dating from before the days when nationalization had ruined the British auto industry. They'd all been fine, or better than fine. Of course, they all used gasoline, rather than diesel, and this could be expected to impose certain logistic issues in the future. Still, the engines were Rolls and what was a little complexity in providing two kinds of fuel compared to the advantage of utter reliability? (The same could have been said for .30 caliber Browning machine guns, which Victor was sure he could procure. 'The Vietnamese have a shitpot lot of them captured in the war there,' he'd said. But while changing out the engines would have been a major job for a minor logistic advantage, using .30s would have been no job at all but at a significant logistic disadvantage. Besides, the Vietnamese record for caring for captured arms since the war was not a particularly good one. 'No, we'll fit PKMs,' Stauer had insisted.)
None of Babcock's checks had incited any anger in the dealer until he'd done a stall check on the first Ferret. This had involved leaving the handbrake on and starting in third gear, then fourth, with the foot brake depressed and the accelerator floored for five seconds.
'What the fock do ye think ye're doin'?' the dealer had asked, belligerently, though he knew exactly what Babcock was doing.
'Ensuring my investments are sound,' Sergeant Babcock had answered.
'What do you need so many of these things for?' the proprietor asked.
'Movie props,' the black man lied, with a perfectly straight face.
In the end, Babcock's checks and insistences had had three effects. One was to drive the cost of the Ferrets up to roughly the six thousand, five hundred pound point, each, on average. The second had been that all nine were reasonably mechanically sound before delivery was accepted. The third was to delay acceptance by about ten days.
Still, 'All's well that ends well, and all that rot.' The cars were ready now, loaded in containers, even, and would be leaving this evening for Portsmouth, a roughly two hour drive. From there, they'd be loaded on a freighter within the next two or three days, thence to Georgetown.
Trim and Babcock were to fly out as soon as they'd seen the things loaded. Their friends and families knew nothing but that they'd be gone for quite some time.
