lot of mercs were just drunks and gunslingers looking for a quick check. These men are entirely different.”
Padgett-Smith turned her attention to the SSI men, some without shirts, all visibly fit. “How so?”
“Well, they’re professionals to start with. Only one or two have no military experience, and those were police. Beyond that, they’re pretty smart as a group. Don’t let the clowns like Bosco and Breezy fool you, ma’am. These guys mostly have stock portfolios and they know what’s up and what’s down. If there’s any adrenaline junkies, I’m not aware of it. And it’s my job to know.”
“But aren’t some of them here for the excitement, the adventure? Like some of them say — for the action?”
“Oh, sure. Some of them, but not all. A lot of them would be happy if they never got shot at while others are looking to prove something to themselves. But I’d guess most of them are a lot like SWAT guys. They’re more into body building and physical challenge than guns and explosives. SSI lets them do those things without the tedious aspects of military life.”
The immunologist looked at some of White Team engaged in an arcane sort of male bonding. She had never seen anyone perform twenty-five one-armed push-ups before. That bald giant again; Ken something or other.
Leopole followed her gaze and read her mind. “It’s like this, Doctor. Where else can a young guy without experience get paid for parachuting or scuba diving or handling expensive equipment? Only in the military, and each of these men had enough of that environment. Admiral Derringer was right there to pick up the people he needed.” Leopole gave her a rare grin. “That’s why he’s an admiral and I was a light colonel!”
“I look forward to meeting him. Everyone seems to regard him well. Mr. Keegan especially…”
“Roger that. Terry’s a very capable young man, but still bitter inside. Guess I can’t blame him after the way the Navy treated him, but that was years ago. He should get over it and move on.”
Because Leopole had never been so open before, Padgett-Smith sensed an opportunity and took it. She was tempted to call him “Frank” but resisted it. “Colonel, I’d like to ask about my personal protection. I know you can’t assign me a bodyguard, and I wouldn’t want to be dependent anyway. Besides, my contract was written so that…”
“Yes, ma’am. I meant to handle that for you.” He rose, walked to his duffel bag, and came back with a green satchel. “This is for you, Doctor, if you can handle it.”
Padgett-Smith opened the satchel and withdrew a holstered Browning. She was aware that the American was watching her closely. She hesitated a moment, focusing on what Tony had told her.
She made a point of looking in the chamber, then felt with the tip of a small finger. Satisfied, she set the Browning down, muzzle toward the wall.
Leopole looked at her closely, as if examining something through one of her microscopes. “Nicely done, Doctor. You’ve had some training.”
“Well, not a lot, you know. But my brother-in-law was SAS.”
“I’ll try to get us a range session but that may not be possible. Anyway, you seem safe with firearms and I’ve seldom known a good shooter who wasn’t a good gun handler.”
He tapped the holster. “We’ll get you rigged up so you can carry this on a belt. When you wear it, keep it concealed at all times. The locals disapprove of women with guns.”
Leopole reached into his duffel and came up with a spare magazine and a box of fifty cartridges. “These are 124-grain hollowpoints. Best nine-mil ammo I know of. It’s not approved by the Geneva Convention but we’re not operating under their rules.” He paused, focusing his thoughts. Then he turned to her again. “Doctor, if you ever have to shoot, keep shooting until the threat goes away. That’s the best advice I can give you.”
He wondered whether he should deliver the final advice about the Last Bullet.
Terry Keegan settled in the copilot’s seat of the Mi-17. The instructor, Captain Falak Mir, sat to his left; Eddie Marsh in the flight engineer’s seat behind them. “Terrific viz,” Keegan enthused, looking downward between the two instrument panels.
“Everybody says that,” Mir replied. He spoke fluent English but did not bother mentioning that he also had passable Russian. “Believe me, it helps to see beneath your feet when you are trying to maintain a hover on a four thousand-meter mountain.”
Keegan looked up from the glass panels. “Do you do that very often?”
Mir nodded. “We can, but that is fairly unusual. However, we have Alouette pilots with a thousand hours above six thousand meters. That is because our highest army positions are at six thousand.”
“Well, my hat’s off to you. I’m basically an antisubmarine guy. I get a nose bleed much over two hundred feet!”
Marsh interjected, leaning over Keegan’s shoulder. “Captain Mir, I know we’ll have some classroom instruction on systems and procedures, but what’s this helo like to fly?”
Mir rotated the control stick between his knees. “The cyclic is heavier than you are used to. That’s the Russian design philosophy— they do not want their pilots making abrupt control inputs at higher airspeeds. That might cause airframe stress. So the hydraulic reservoir dampens the motion.” He shrugged. “After a little experience you learn to anticipate more than normal.”
Marsh nodded, thinking ahead to the time he would sit in the left seat, contrary to American choppers with the command pilot on the right. “How’s the collective?”
Mir touched the control lever on the left side of Keegan’s seat. “Nothing unusual. It has a friction lock so you can adjust tension to your liking.”
The instructor ran practiced fingers across the right-hand instrument panel. “Engine gauges, fuel flow, flight instruments. Those are all metric, of course, but it goes without saying that you keep everything in the green. At higher altitudes you may pull more torque in the yellow, but not for long.” He grinned beneath his mustache. “We only have thirty-eight of these machines, and the two squadron commanders are rather jealous of them.”
He continued his explanation. “Autopilot, radio compass, radio altimeter, and communication panel. I understand from Major Khan that you expect to operate discreetly, so your Pakistani copilot can handle special communications.”
“The Mi-17 cruises at 240 kilometers, which is — what? About 130 knots? Vmax is only ten klicks more so I do not believe in pushing it. Your main performance advantage is in lifting. The Seventeen carries four tons of external load, which I imagine is far more than you will ever need. Mainly, you can hover at normal takeoff weight at four thousand meters.”
“The specs I saw said your range is about five hundred kilometers,” Keegan said.
“Figure 250 nautical and you should be safe.”
“Captain, I’m all for being safe!”
“Do you mind if I join you?”
Jeffrey Malten was pleasantly surprised to hear the dulcet voice of “the bug lady.” That’s how some of the operators had been referring to her. Weapons of mass destruction came in three flavors: chemical, biological, and nuclear, aka gas, bugs, and nukes.
“Why, no, ma’am. Not a bit.” Malten and a Red Team operator were finishing their stretching exercises when Padgett-Smith arrived. She wanted to maintain some sort of jogging routine but realized that a lone white female was bound to draw unwelcome attention. She pulled her warmup’s hood over her head and quickly finished her own routine. Malten introduced her to his partner.
“Dr. Smith, this is Jeremy Johnson.” The two shook hands.
“Mr. Johnson. How do you do?”
