John Ringo - Ghost 04 - Into the Breach

Prologue

"Working late, Doctor?" Boris asked, yawning and glancing at the scientist's identity card.

Dr. Tolegen Arensky nodded, trying not to appear nervous. "One of my samples is done cooking; I have

to test it when it's fresh."

"Better you than me," Boris replied, handing the ID back and making a note on his log-sheet. "If I ever

have to pass the doors of even level one, it will be too soon, yes?"

"The day we have to call security into the quarantine zones is the day I quit," Dr. Arensky said with a

weak smile. "I barely trust our research assistants in there, no offense."

"None taken," Boris replied with a shudder, pressing the solenoid under his desk. At the sound of the

all-clear buzzer the over-watch, observing the entry room from a remote security station, opened the

sliding steel entry door and Dr. Victor Arensky started the last hour of his tenure in Russian biological

research.

He passed through another metal door, nodded at the sleepy guard on the far side and turned right

towards his office. If he had turned left he would have quickly confronted a third steel door and the

various processes required to enter Quarantine Level One. Since he generally worked in Level Four or

even Five getting to his primary labs was a daily chore.

Staying in the outer "non-quarantine" zone of the hexagonal building he passed seven office doors, all on

his right and representing by their names and title plates descending levels of power in the institute,

passing his own at the seventh. Any sample, of course, would be cooking away in Level Four - nobody

did any more research in Five since the "incident" nearly ten years ago—but he hoped that the guards

would be their usual efficient self and ignore that.

He went past his room, however, and stopped at the very end of the corridor. There was one more

door there, a janitor's closet. He entered the janitor's closet and removed some bottles of ancient and

dust covered bleach from the third shelf on the left. From under his bulky winter coat he removed a

vaguely pyramidal object and stripped a coating from the flat underside revealing a sticky tape. He

pressed the object against the wall then very gently unscrewed the tip of the object which was cylindrical.

On the base of the screw device was a plastic plug with a round plastic tab jutting from it. He grasped the

tab and pulled, removing the plug with a vaguely "pock" sound. As he did a blue LED on the other end of

the cylindrical device began to blink. He carefully screwed the cylinder back into the device and then

placed the plastic plug in his jacket pocket.

That done he proceeded back to his office.

As he entered the room he removed his heavy outer coat and fur hat, hanging them on the coat-rack by

the door then followed them with his suit coat and donned his lab coat. After a moment's thought, after

actually turning to his desk, he paused, removed the lab coat and redonned his suit coat. After another

moment's thought he removed the heavy jacket and fur hat and placed them on his desk.

The office was small, barely adequate to fit his desk, a safe in one corner and a filing cabinet. It was also

Spartan. On the desk was a lined pad, a pencil and a framed photograph. On the back wall was a

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

picture of the current Russian president. A slight discoloration around the frame indicated that there had

once been a larger picture in the same spot. It also indicated how long it had been since the office was

painted.

Picking up the briefcase that was already in the room he set it on the desk and opened it. Turning to the

safe, the combination for which the facility administrator didnot have even if the idiot thought he did, he

dialed in the combination from memory and opened it. Inside were four steel containers. Smuggling them

to his office had taken the better part of two nerve-wracking months but getting them out of the building

was impossible; everything leaving was searched with otherwise abnormal efficiency.

Which was why he was here at three o'clock in the morning.

He opened the briefcase and slitted the containers into the pre-cut slots in the foam rubber inside. He

then removed ten CDs from the safe and carefully arranged them on the face of the foam rubber. He

started to close the safe then paused and picked up the framed picture on the desk. He looked at it for a

moment and then carefully removed the picture itself, sliding it into the briefcase before closing and

locking it.

His preparations complete he centered the briefcase on the desk, sat down on his hard wooden chair

and steepled his fingers in front of him. After a moment he looked at his watch. He would continue to do

so every nine seconds, unthinkingly and really unseeing, for the next three minutes and forty seven

seconds.

* * *

At the same moment as Boris was questioning the doctor on why he was arriving to work at three in the

morning, on a narrow road nearby a delivery truck was stopping at a police checkpoint.

Police checkpoints were so ubiquitous, and greedy, in the Confederation of Independent States, the

formerSoviet Union , the only surprise on the part of the driver was to find one at this time of the morning

at such an out-of-the-way spot. However, based upon their standard police car and there being only two

of them it was probably a roving patrol that had chosen a side-road to "raise some revenue." If they were

on the main road it would be obvious and they'd have to cut their watch supervisor in on their take. Out

here nobody was going to notice.

The driver braked to a stop and pulled out his license and registration, slipping a ten ruble note between

them. He'd put it in an expense report and probably be paid back, eventually. Argenia Pharmaceuticals

could afford the bribes; they were after all a part of doing business inRussia . They were so common,

they weren't even considered bribes. Given the way thatall public servants were paid these days it was

almost reasonable for the cops to increase their salaries in this way. But they could be God-damned

greedy about it.

"License and registration," the officer said as the driver rolled down the window. There was another

officer on the passenger's side, waiting patiently. Not common but not unknown. Generally they were

both on the driver's side so that the partner could be sure of the take. The strangest thing about the

policeman, the driver noticed in the last moments of his life, was that he was unusually fit and professional

looking.

"Please step out of the vehicle," the policeman said, stepping back and gesturing. He also hadn't

pocketed the money.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"Why?" the driver said. "I'm not drunk."

"I need to ask you a few questions," the policeman said, waving again with is left hand and placing his

hand on the butt of his service pistol. "Out of the truck!"

At this the passenger side door was yanked open and the officer on that side grasped the driver's mate,

pulling him down to the road.

"Okay, okay!" the driver said raising his hands then lowering them to open the door and climb out.

"What's the big deal?"

"To the side of the road," the policeman said, sternly. "Hands above your head."

"Fine, fine, whatever," the driver replied, shaken. "What is all this about?"

The answer was a cold sensation in the back of his head and then blackness.

* * *

The "police officer" slid the silenced pistol back into the rear waistband of his perfect uniform trousers

and looked at his watch. As he lowered his hand a man wearing the identical coveralls to the driver, right

down to the Argenia Pharmaceuticals badge on his left breast, walked out of the woods carrying a body

bag. He unrolled it next to the body and then the "driver" and the "policeman" lifted the driver's body into

the bag. The "driver" zipped it shut and then the two lifted it and carried it to the rear of the panel van.

When they got there six men in heavy battle dress were already there, opening up the back door. Four

of them boarded and caught the tossed bodies, rapidly stacking them on the shelves lining the side of the

panel van. The remaining two were carrying weapons, coveralls and body armor. As the bodies were

being stacked one of the policemen slid on the coveralls as the two porters handed off their burdens to

the four stackers in the van. The second stripped of his police uniform revealing the uniform of the

Federal Security Executive underneath. He was handed a heavy jacket, a fur hat and correct equipment

for his position. When the "policemen" were dressed, all four climbed into the now crowded panel van.

Three seconds after the door slammed the panel van started rolling again. From braking to a stop until

moving the van had been in place for two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, three seconds ahead of

plan. The "driver" considered this and reduced his speed by one kilometer per hour. It wouldn't do to be

there early.

* * *

A rubber boat crunched to a stop on the shingle of the island and the six men in black immersion suits

and body armor spread out in three teams of two. Each team had one man carrying a dual tubed Russian

RPO-A disposable rocket launcher while the second carried an SV-98 sniper rifle. Each man was

wearing night-vision goggles and ran through the darkness as if they had done it a thousand times, easily

avoiding the many large rocks that littered the beach.

One of the teams paused and took a knee as the team member carrying the sniper rifle pulled a heavily

weighted device from his belt. The device was, essentially, a tomahawk with a heavy head. The "front"

side of the head was a razor sharp axe blade. The "back" side was a hammer-head.

After a moment there was a crunch of shingle a sentry stepped off a worn trail onto the shingle and

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

started walking to the east, away from the crouched team.

The team sniper stepped forward silently, placing his feet carefully to prevent the shingles crunching and

pausing to let the wind carry the slight sounds he was forced to make away from the sentry. This silent,

but rapid, stalk brought him to within a arm's length of the sentry in less than a minute. As soon as he was

within reach he brought the axe, which had been held up over his right shoulder the whole time, down

and across from the left, burying it slightly sideways at the very top of the sentry's neck. Leaving the axe

in place, he caught the falling body and lowered it to the ground then gestured to the trail and followed

the rocket-man up.

Just over the slight rise to the north was a hexagonal building, guarded on it's vulnerable rear by three

heavily armed, and armored, bunkers...

* * *

As Dr. Arensky was screwing a blue blinking cylinder into a pyramidal device the regular morning

delivery from Argenia Pharmaceuticals pulled to a stop at the outer gate of the facility.

The outer gate was on a narrow causeway that led to the mainland. The hexagonal facility was on a small

island in Astrakhan. The only way on and off were by helicopter, boat or across the narrow, kilometer

and a half, causeway.

"Where's the regular guy?" the guard asked, blinking. It was breezy as hell on this guard post and he'd

been huddling in his unheated shack trying to survive until he saw the headlights. Being out in this

whipping wind wasn't his idea of fun, either.

"Drunk? Sick? Quit? I dunno," the driver said, unpleasantly, handing over an Argenia ID and manifest

stating that he was Ivan Sorvoso, Argenia Pharmaceuticals Employee Number 54820 and that Ivan

Sorvoso, Argenia Pharmaceuticals Employee Number 54820, was the correct driver for the vehicle on

this day for this load of biological chemicals, precursors and testing samples, inventory enclosed. "All I

know is I got called at damned midnight for this shit. So I'd like to be done and gone as soon as

possible."

"Fine by me," the guard said but studied the documentation carefully. He was new and motivated, which

was why the old guys had stuck him on the outer guard shack. That way the little snot wouldn't be

grumbling all the time about them being asleep. He nodded after a moment's careful perusal and handed

the documents back. "All in order," he said, stepping back into his guard-shack and pressing a solenoid

to raise the heavy metal pole across the road.

Without so much as a wave the truck jerked to life and headed towards the vast hexagonal building

ahead.

* * *

As the panel van pulled away from the guard-house the three sniper/rocket teams reached their

pre-attack points. Each of the sniper members pulled out periscopic night vision devices and checked the

bunkers. Each was manned, with lights on in the interior. Tactically, they should have been red or blue

but over the years the various users had substituted white bulbs so the bunkers stood out like neon signs.

It also meant that the users would effectively night-blind.

Almost simultaneously, although separated by eighty yards, the three snipers snapped their periscopes

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

down and picked up their rifles.

* * *

As the sentry was being taken down, four of the eight entry specialists in the panel van slid off as it

passed the front doors. The reason for the hexagonal shape was purely security; the hexagons made it

possible to fit more area in while maintaining a reasonable number of external cameras. A rectangle had

less internal area, a circle created too many "blind" areas.

Unfortunately, the excellent theory had run into far too typical Russian inefficiency. The front cameras, in

fact, left precisely that dead zone to the left of the front doors. The eastern camera pointed slightly

outwards as did the western. This was supposed to be covered by the two cameras over the door, but

those left a solid gap, about six meters wide, along the wall. The team of four crouched in that gap for a

moment as the lead checked his watch. Then he nodded and waved one of the armored and masked

figures forward.

The figure, the "policeman", drew his silenced pistol again and fired one round. The shot took out the

right-hand camera and he darted forward, reaching into a pouch. From it he extracted a small device

and, quickly unplugging the left-hand camera's port, he inserted the device and replugged the assembly

into it. He stepped back and extracted a small PDA and looked at it for a moment. Then he hit a button

on the PDA turned his head and nodded.

* * *

As the snipers snapped down their periscopes a new vehicle appeared out of the woods of the distant

mainland.

"Busy night," the guard muttered, stepping out of the shack and slapping his mittened hands together to

try to get some feeling in them.

"This is a restricted area," the guard said, as the passenger slid down his window.

"I have a pass," the man said.

The guard had no time to react to the sight of the silenced muzzle.

* * *

"Camera Four is out," the intercom announced to Boris on his lonely vigil at the front desk. "And five just

flickered. Go check it out."

"Got it," Boris sighed, picking up his walkie-talkie and trudging to the front door. He slid his card

through the reader, a newfangled innovation in his opinion and totally unnecessary, and opened the door.

The last thing he saw was the masked figure in front of him.

* * *

"Security, this is Boris." The radio crackled with static and was half unreadable.

Markov set his bottle of vodka down and belched then pressed the microphone button. "Yes? What is

wrong?"

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"The plug came undone again in this damned wind," Boris said. Or Markov thought he did, the reception

was terrible. "There, how is that?"

The screen for the right-hand door camera flickered for a moment and then came to life. After a moment

Boris stepped in view by the door. His head was down and covered by a heavy fur hat with the flaps

down, but from the way his uniform was blowing it was reasonable wear for the out-of-doors.

"I'm going in," the guard said, sliding his card through the reader.

* * *

As the panel van backed up to the loading dock the new car accelerated down the causeway, it's

passenger now standing in place of the guard wearing the same style uniform and markings.

"Teams," the driver said into his microphone.

"Team One, place."

"Two...place."

"Three, place."

"Go," he said, quietly, sliding to a stop in front of the main doors.

* * *

The back doors of the panel van crashed open and the single external guard had just enough time to

wake up from a vodka induced haze and see the four heavily armed attackers before he died. Two more

shots and both cameras were out.

"Boris" opened the front doors and drew two pistols. One shot took out each of the internal cameras

and then he stepped to the side as the entry team trotted past. The lead of the team slapped a ring of

thermal entry plastic onto the steel door while another slapped a breaching charge in the center. All four

of the entry team turned to the side, covering their eyes with their arms, as the plastic was ignited. There

was a moment of searing white and a sharp "crack" and clang as the refractory steel was first burned

through and then slammed backwards by the breaching charge.

At the side door the identical assault had opened up the loading area. Both teams were in.

A moment later an alarm began to shrill.

* * *

At the sound of the alarm Dr. Arensky sighed and pulled a small device out of his side pocket. He pulled

a pin from the device and then pressed the only button on the face. There was a distant "crack" and all

the lights went out: on the far side of the wall in the janitor's closet was the main electrical breaker for the

entire building.

* * *

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

At the first hoot of the alarm, which had been right on time according to their internal clock, the three

rocket-men stood up, tracked in on the narrow slit openings of the bunkers and fired, all within the span

of a second.

The US Marines in Iraq had recently started to use a "new" thermobaric rocket system against the

insurgents. It was only "new" to the Marines, though: the Russians had been using it all the way back to

the Afghanistan War.

Thermobaric, often incorrectly called "fuel-air", rounds used heat, "thermo" and overpressure "baric" to

create a devastating explosion. Early thermobaric roundshad used "fuel" as their delivery medium,

spreading a gas over a wide area before detonating catastrophically. Newer systems, such as the rocket

being used in this instance, used a specialized "slow-fire" solid explosive that, as it exploded, continued to

carry molecules of the explosive along its blast front which, in turn, exploded.

This created massive overpressure inside of the bunkers, instantly killing everyone within, blasting off the

reinforced rear doors and tossing body parts and chunks of machine-gun out through the narrow

engagement slots.

Immediately after they fired, the snipers peeked up besides them scanning for targets. There were two

potential reactions that the internal defense team could take. They could respond to the bunkers being hit

or to the attack on the inside. In the event of attempted reinforcement of the bunkers...there were the

snipers...

* * *

Team Two, the side-door team, blew down the cargo door on the side and turned immediately to the

right. The internal door here was only wood and the lock blew off at the blast of a shotgun. As the door

thudded open the lights went out. The alarm continued to shrill but only spotty emergency lighting, red

and dim, came on throughout the facility. The team waited patiently, however, for what was about to

occur as shotgun blasts, regular as clockwork, began to boom down the corridor.

* * *

Team One, the front entry team, spread out. Two team members started down the hallway to the left,

two more to the right. As each team came to a door, the lead placed his shotgun against the lock, pulled

the trigger and then stepped back. The trail then stepped forward tossed a head sized device into the

room and the cycle was repeated.

The right-hand team did the same, moving down the corridor to Dr. Arensky's office then passing by.

As the two teams spread out the driver of the sedan strolled into the main corridor and turned to the

right. When he reached Dr. Arensky's office, as the right-hand team reached the end of the corridor and

tossed a device into the janitor's closet, he knocked on the door, three times, with pauses between.

The door was jerked open as Dr. Arensky struggled into his heavy outer coat, the briefcase in his hand.

"This is madness," the doctor said, sputtering.

"You do have it, though, yes?" the man asked. He was tall and broad with gray-shot black hair and a

tanned face lined by much time out-of-doors.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

"I have it," Dr. Arensky snapped, lifting the case.

"Let us go, then," the man said, lifting his arm to look at his watch and then nodding as a sharp crack

sounded down the corridor. The crack, and flash of light, was followed by a series of rapid, short bursts

of fire. Seven in all. "Our ride is on the way and we don't want to keep them waiting."

He waved down the hallway as the team of two men, one of them "Boris/Policeman" walked to the

door. "Boris" casually tossed his last packet in the room and the two followed Arensky and the broad

man out the front door.

From out of the cloudy sky, which was now drifting snowflakes downward, an Alouette helicopter

dropped, twin to the one dropping to the rear of the facility. The team boarded silently, the broad man

and "Boris" simultaneously pushing Dr. Arensky into one of the seats and buckling him in. When they

were done, and in their own seats, the rest of the team was in and secured.

The broad man looked at his watch and nodded as the helicopter lifted into the sky.

"One minute forty seven seconds," he said across Arensky to "Boris." "Very good time, Kurt, very

good." He pulled a device similar to the one that Dr. Arensky had had out of his pocket and extended an

antenna. When he depressed the plunger the entire administrative section of the Russian Institute for

Agricultural and Biological Research disappeared in a blinding flash. The concussion slightly rocked the

rapidly ascending helicopter.

"Very good time indeed."

Chapter One

"Fuck me."

Mike Harmon, AKA Michael James, AKA Michael Duncan and currently Mike Jenkins or "Kildar",

was thirty-seven years old, brown of hair and eye, medium height with a muscular build and a face that,

while slightly handsome, was also so "normal" that he could pass as a local in just about any

Indo-European culture from the US to Northern India. That trait, and an almost prescient talent for

silent-kill, had earned him the nickname "Ghost" while on the SEAL teams. After sixteen years as a

SEAL, most of it spent as an instructor, he had found himself unable to readjust to team life, gotten out

and gone to college. Since then his life had taken so many weird turns that he had ended up as a feudal

lord in the country of Georgia. With a harem, no less. Oh, and with every terrorist on earth searching for

his head. Which was why he never used the name "Ghost" or "Harmon" except around a very few, very

close, friends.

Mike was sitting on the summit of Mount Sumri, drinking in the cold, heady air of the high mountains and

just taking a look around. He'd taken to climbing the mountain every few days as a way to get exercise

and some time away from his various duties.

The Keldara called it "Mount Raven" for the flocks that gathered on its slopes. It was the highest peak of

the many surrounding the valley and the birds apparently liked the viewpoint. So did Mike: one of the

reasons to climb it was to take a look around.

As he'd been examining the mountains to the north, a source of constant low-grade anxiety, a flash of

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

movement caught his eye. The hills had small herds of deer, wild pigs, mountain goats and even a few

wolves. But this shape was different. Low-slung, slow-moving and...predatory.

He steadied the binoculars by resting his elbows on his knees and engaged the digital zoom. The picture

tended to pixellate but he could zoom to a hundred times normal view magnification at the maximum. He

zoomed it out to about seventy times and then controlled his breathing instinctively, trying to catch the

shape again.

It was a tiger. A young male Siberian if he wasn't mistaken. Which was just flat impossible. The last tiger

in the Caucasus Mountains had been killed off nearly a century ago. The Keldara still had a few

preserved skins, but that was the only remnant. And the nearest breeding group of Siberians, which were

themselves threatened with extinction, was, well, inSiberia .Eastern Siberia, which was about as close to

the Caucasus as Southern California was to Nova Scotia. There was noway a tiger could have just

walked all the way from Siberia.

But the evidence was there before his eyes. He wasn't about to dismiss it. Even if itwas impossible.

The tiger only remained in sight for a moment then disappeared over the crest of the ridge. It was as if it

had come into sight just to show say: Hey! Yo! Here I am!

"Cool." Mike whispered. But he made the decision, immediately, to keep quiet about it. There was no

way he was going to mention the sighting unless other evidence turned up. Nobody would believe it. Oh,

they'd be polite enough about it. He did, after all, employ or, basically, "own" just about everyone he met

on a day to day basis.

While he couldn't be said to "own" all he could survey from his lofty aerie, he did control it. The valley

below, the valley of the Keldara, he did own. He had bought the valley, and the caravanserai that came

with it, more or less on a whim. He had gotten lost and found himself in a remote mountain town with the

strong possibility of being stuck there all winter. Since the only available living quarters, an unheated and

bug infested room over the town's sole bar, were less than pleasant, he had needed some place to stay.

And, frankly, he was tired of traveling. So, thinking that he could always sell the place if he had to, he had

"bought the farm", mostly for the caravanserai, a castle like former caravan hostel. The "farm" was in the

valley below, a fertile high-mountain pocket valley about five miles long and two in width stretching more

or less north to south.

The farm came with tenants, the Six Families of the Keldara. The Keldara were, at first, a pretty

mysterious group. They were said to be fighters but on the surface they were much like any similar group

of peasant farmers Mike had encountered in over forty other countries.

The valley also came with problems. The farm had been terribly neglected for years and the Keldara still

used, essentially, dark ages equipment: horse and ox drawn plows, hand scythes and threshed the grain

by running oxen over it. The farm manager was a blow-hard who had all the farming and management

skills of a rabid badger. And the Keldara had little or no motivation to improve things.

Mike had solved that problem early on by finding a new farm manager, a former Keldara who had been

university trained as an agronomist and then "exiled" from the families for challenging the farm manager's

authority. The other fix was just throwing money at the situation: he had bought new equipment, tractors,

combines, chainsaws and everything else a modern farm needs. Together with modern seeds, fertilizers,

herbicides and farming techniques, the direct farming aspects were coming together. The fields below

were yellow stubble from the largest bumper crop any of the Keldara had seen in their lives. The harvest

festival scheduled for tomorrow was going to be a happy event.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

The other problem, though, looked to be more intractable. Right over the mountains to the north was

Chechnya, where the Russians were fighting an ongoing insurgency that had continued without relief for

over fifteen years. The Chechen resistance used the Pansiki Gorge, less than sixty miles from where Mike

sat, as their primary basing area. Technically part of the country of Georgia, Georgian forces, limited in

number, under-trained and funded and with other serious problems to handle, didn't even consider trying

to contest it with the battle experienced and well-armed Chechens.

The battles spilled over to the region of the Keldara. The Chechens used the area as a transshipment

point, sending drugs and kidnapped women out to be sold or traded for weapons and ammunition and

bring the ammo and weapons back. The constant trade was a source of anger on the part of the Russians

who regularly threatened the area with outright invasion.

The Chechens didn't just wander through the area. They often extorted food and girls from local farms

or, in some cases, raided and burned them. Whole towns had been raided within the last few years.

It wasn't the best security situation in the world.

Mike's response was simple: Turn the Keldara retainers into a militia. He had, in his time, seriously

pissed off every terrorist on earth. If he was going to be right next to Chechen Central, he wanted some

shooters at his back. He hired a large number of trainers from the US and Britain, shipped in top quality

gear and set out to turn the "simple farmers" into a group capable of, at the very least, securing their own

homes and his.

The Keldara had 120 males available between the ages of seventeen and thirty. Mike's goal was to turn

them in to a decent company of militia, period. He wanted them to be able to maneuver against an enemy

force while the younger women, who were trained in positional defense, held the homes. That was it.

What he found out, as the training progressed, was that the Keldara were far from "simple farmers."

They took to military training as if they had been born with a rifle in their hands. Enthusiastic didn't begin

to cover it; he realized, quickly, that he had unleashed a monster.

The reason for their response trickled out, slowly. He still wasn't sure he knew the whole story. But one

part he found out even before the training began: the Keldara were not "true" Georgians; they were a

living remnant of an ancient elite force called the Varangian Guard. The Varangians were Norse, mostly

from Russia, hired by the Byzantine Emperors as their personal bodyguards.

In the Keldara, the fierce warrior spirit of the Viking was a present day reality. They had to survive as

farmers, but at heart they were reavers and warriors that sought death in battle so that they could ascend

to their heaven: "the Halls of Feasting", Valhalla. They masked as Christians but practiced their ancient

worship of "the Father of All", Odin, in secret. Their preferred weapon was the axe and they trained with

them as seriously as they learned to plow.

Theywere , in fact, born with a weapon in their hand. When a Keldara male was born, one of the

ancient battleaxes the Fathers kept—axes handed down over literally millennia—was placed in his hands

and the hands closed over the great hilt. The first thing they learned to grasp was a weapon.

The Keldara had always had a lord and that person hadalways been a "foreigner", a mercenary who

was not of the government that controlled them. Often they had been northern European adventurers,

knights, cavalrymen, wandering bravos, over the ages the position and weapons had changed but not the

pattern.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

John Ringo - Ghost 04 - Into the Breach

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: