Life as a New Hire Ch. 35

If Katrina wouldn't let me write off this calamity as PTO, I was going to be irate. I was on the verge of having a large family to support after all, unless you considered me marrying a billionaire's heiress to be compensation enough. The only group involved who weren't trying to actually see me was the Khanate.

Temujin most likely had some shamanistic mojo that would let him know if I croaked. That bit smacked of paganism, so it was kept under wraps because he had to appear dutifully Islamic for the masses. Still, some koumiss would have been nice. Heck, right then I could have gone for an 'atta boy' - perhaps even a 'two thumbs up'.

Oh yeah; the general of the 4th Romanian Division wanted me to stop by when I had the chance (if I didn't, he'd send men to kill me, or so it was insinuated). The 61st Mountain Troops was part of his division's combat command and if the General Staff went looking for someone to crucify, he was making damn sure it wasn't going to be him.

It occurred to me that I could send a handsome-looking Spetsnaz (if there was such a thing) to go in my place. They were brother Slavs, right? I was sure that between the 'Fall of the Berlin Wall', Moldavian Independence and Romania joining NATO, they would have much to discuss. Out of the blue, Pamela smacked me on the back of my head, Jethro Gibbs' style. My 'more-evil Russian doppelganger' idea must have been poorly thought out.

Before I could implement that silliness, or trigger the big brouhaha, there was a preamble: I had three compatriots. Of greater importance, I had three heavily armed/gravely-serious bodyguards who wouldn't surrender their weapons and/or abandon me. So I thought "play nice" thoughts to myself.

Diplomacy, sovereignty and legality all reared their ugly heads. I wasn't really an Irish diplomat. My paperwork was still valid, but the Romanian government hadn't permitted my entry into their country under the standard diplomatic protocols. Ireland wanted to talk to me about that - why was I running around armed and killing people in two Central European countries? I was acting more like an Irish adventurer from the 17th century, than a genteel civil servant from the 21st.

Then there was the niggling little complication that involved me, my friends and our criminal possession of military-grade hardware. Chaz had the dubious excuse of being an official British government agent on assignment. That meant he could hope for a prisoner exchange within the next decade. Rachel and Pamela were private citizens with painfully sketchy proofs of US citizenship.

When the Romanian legal system finished buggering them, it would be off to Hungry and its serious inquiry into all the dead bodies we'd left in our wake. Who was I kidding? What I was really worrying about was how many members of the Romanian penal system would die when they escaped. Their flimsy identities gave no clue to how dangerous they actually were. Hell, they'd beat me home.

I had the added difficulty of Ireland and their questions about who the fuck I was and why I had their gold filigree on something I didn't deserve sitting snugly in my back pocket.

So first off, this new band of 'Eagles' wanted to disarm and separate us.

[Romanian] "Don't insult me," I scoffed. "I am your Prince. Don't make me explain it to your widow."

[Romanian] "I'm not married," the Lieutenant snarled back, daring me.

[Romanian] "Well, rush out and marry somebody. I haven't got all day. We don't want me to be caught in an idle boast now do we?" I grinned. Verbal sparring apparently wasn't in his repertoire.

[Romanian] "What?"

"Shut the fuck up, Carl," Chaz blithely inserted himself into the conversation.

"But you don't even speak Romanian," I countered. "How do you even know what I said?" The Romanians didn't know English, but they knew Carl. The tension between us ebbed.

"By the expression on the officer's face, Hercege," he winked. "It's universal to the brotherhood."

[Romanian] "Who is he with?" The officer questioned me.

[Romanian] "You and he are the same," I answered.

[Romanian] "You cannot go any farther armed," he returned to his mission parameters.

[Romanian] "I don't envy you going in and telling the Colonel to come out here, but so be it," I held my ground.

[Romanian] "We could kill you and take them off your corpses," he studied my reaction.

[Romanian] "You are the second handsome man to tell me that today," I shook my head. "I'll tell you what I told him: 'you sure are cute, just not my type'." Pause then laughter.

[Romanian] "You are a madman," the lieutenant snorted. "I'll go talk to the Colonel."

I was a jerk, loved maidens and was a master of bullshit. Did that make me a modern day Minotaur? The lieutenant came back out, then ushered me inside; Riki had to wait for the moment. He motioned my team come along. In the staff room of the 61st were a handful of officers and several suits.

"Mr. Nyilas," the Colonel gazed upon me. "I don't know what to make of you."

"You and my Mother both," I mumbled. Despite the somber atmosphere, a few of the men and women let their moods lighten. They didn't hold my levity against me. I'd been there, on the battlefield and if humor was how I dealt with the experience, so be it.

"Ha," the greying man mused. "It is wholly my fault that I disregard most of the information you supplied my staff. You were unerringly accurate in your assessment of our enemy's capabilities. I know my men and I know how good they are. Veteran commanders can barely describe what my troops endured. You warned us and I didn't believe you. I was wrong and my men died because of it," he sighed.

"Sir, I do not believe you could have done anything else and succeeded," I interrupted.

"Succeeded? Is this what you consider success?" he hardened.

"Absolutely, Sir. Had you been slower to respond, those men would have most likely come here, to Miercurea Ciuc, and you would have fought the same battle ...except your civilians would have been caught in the mix," I lied.

If Ajax had escaped he'd have hunted me down. The location would have been irrelevant to him. How he knew where to be was a question for later and something to be presented to smarter, more experienced minds.

"Perhaps," he allowed. "They were heading north when we encountered them.

The Alal in me was going back over the plan. It had been sound.

"Sir, you had every reason to doubt my military experience and to believe I exaggerated the threat. I was right and I take no joy in that, nor do I think anyone can hold your decisions against you," I stated.

Now he gave a bitter laugh. Yes, they could hold all the deaths against him.

"We both know your men and women didn't die for their country - they killed for it. Quite frankly, I believe they killed some of the most vicious creatures to ever walk the face of the Earth. Fuck them for taking so many of us. Pile their bodies up and burn them," I suggested.

"They deserve no more Romanian soil than a spot to inter their ashes," I concluded.

"You do not sound like any diplomat I've ever met," the Colonel regained his gruff exterior.

"I'm not. I'm a fraud. I know as much about Ireland as I do about being a prince," I confessed. "That said, I didn't come here to kill anyone. I came to save lives."

[Romanian] "How has that worked out for you?" a sitting woman in a suit questioned. She was slender, waspish and didn't sound comfortable speaking English, though she knew enough to get by.

"I am not a fortune-teller. I don't know how this is going to work out," I said.

[Romanian] "That's not what I asked," she prodded.

"Yes it was," I corrected her. "You wanted to know if I thought the price of your dead countrymen was worth the life of me, my friends and the lives of your countrymen I came to save. I can't measure the promise of those lives against the loss of all the dead. Don't play games with me. I'm have a degree in Philosophy and I eat morally ambiguous people like you for lunch."

Pamela laughed aloud and lively.

"Kimberly and Katrina would be so proud of you right now," she chortled.

[Romanian] "I don't think you grasp the deep pit your find yourself in, Friend" the suit stayed chillingly calm.

"Oh, I think we all know we both screwed the pooch big time," I smirked. "The difference is me and mine are all happy to be alive after two of the most trying, fun-filled days of our lives. You want to throw us in prison. The Hungarians want to throw us in prison. I'm sure if I get back to the States, they will want to put us in prison too. Have I missed anyone?"

[Romanian] "I'm glad you will confess. It will make it easier on us," she grinned like sexy weasel.

"Wait," Rachel put a restraining arm on me. "I've wanted to say this for some time." To the weasel, "Blow it out your ass, dipshit."

"Rachel, you don't know what she said," Pamela faux-gasped.

"I don't know the words, but I know what he meant," Rachel glowered. She missed Charlotte so much, she was willing to court pain and death. "I want to go back in time and slap her mother repeatedly for not strangling her in the crib. Is that succinct enough?"

"I apologize for ever meeting you, Rachel. I've brought you to a bad end," I gave her a tender look.

"It's okay. I never thought I'd live long enough to sleep with you anyway," she smiled back.

Phfft...sigh. It was so sad that I recognized the sound of a low-caliber, silenced round.

"Listen up, dipshit," Pamela snickered. "Good one, Rachel. If you don't believe the next one is going through your skull, you clearly haven't been listening to us. You are fucking with the wrong monkeys. You have this bizarre idea that if I kill you, your government won't replace your worthless, bullet-riddled hide with someone we find more agreeable. My grandson sent in motion a half million combatants a few hours ago, he nearly died leading your soldiers against your nation's enemies and you want him to kiss your shoes as if you matter at all in the grand scheme of things?" she snarled. "Think again."

No one was moving because Pamela had her silenced .22 Beretta out and pointed at Weasel's head. The SF's were caught flat-footed, as was everyone else. No guards came rushing in because the closed doors further muffled the sound. "I think this is a good time for us to get a drink," Chaz advised as he slowly reached out and lowered Pamela's gun hand.

It was Pamela's gunboat diplomacy yet again. She hadn't meant to kill the women. Hell, she'd been a random target of opportunity. What Pamela had done was clear up the doubts in the room. Everyone on the staff could self-consciously let themselves off the hook for not being in the front lines, risking themselves with their comrades. Thanks to Pamela, they too had confronted violence.

'Crazy' Grandma had fired off her piece and everyone sighed with relief when Chaz got her to lower it. I was pretty sure Chaz was in on this dangerous game. It resided with the Colonel as to how to resolve this hiccup in our dispute.

"Mr. Nyilas, why don't we take a walk outside, just the two of us?" he 'requested'.

I nodded because I'm not always as dumb as I look. He was letting my people off with incredible temperance and I could honorably send them away. They'd scoped out the scene and believed I'd be safe enough. He, in turn, had an excuse to take a step away from his political watchdogs.

"I think that is for the best," I nodded. "Do you want me to leave my guns behind?"

"No, Mr. Nyilas, we might run into trouble out there and one of my Captains has suggested you are a man who can take care of himself," he replied. That was very nice of him indeed. If I did do something stupid...he had a ton of troops about who would make my regrets rather temporary. I decided to behave as if I had a passing acquaintance with sanity.

His first questions were about the fighting at the ruins. I peppered our exchange with my interest in what had happened to the advance force of the 22nd. It was bleak news, yet the Colonel felt a sense of relief. He was coming to accept the lethality of his enemies, which in turn, led to an understanding, if not acceptance, of the carnage his men had been subjected to.

He was in a cycle of context - grief - context. He'd gambled on me and men died. Once the battle was joined though, his soldiers had done precisely the right thing under considerable stress. He could be proud without dishonoring the dead. Only Pamela and I had engaged Ajax earlier. Only I had talked with the man.

The Colonel had to look into my eyes to get the spark that led to understanding the mind and ruthlessness of his opponent. The name 'Ajax' never came up. That was more than a rational mind could accept at the moment. He knew his men had fought and killed the best and that helped him cope a tiny bit. Our interview ended when the first of the unwanted guests arrived.

Only when I walked inside did it occur to me that this had been my first soldier to soldier chat. We had respected one another and discussed matters like men who knew the score. That was depressing in its own right. It was well passed nightfall when we went back inside. In our absence, Riki had started to redeem my existence. My salvation lay in Romantic Americana Symbolism.

Translation: I was a Horatio Alger - a working class kid raised by a widower father, who earned a scholarship to a quiet New England college, graduated near the top of my class and gotten an excellent job (salary and benefits not disclosed). That was the was the first part of the Americana - proof positive that America was still the land of opportunity and a place where poor children could still reach the highest levels of society (umm...okay?).

The second Americana Part: my Father had been murdered in a case of mistaken identity. Those heavily-armed foreign corporate/rogue governmental-sponsored terrorist mercenaries (their exact origin was shrouded in double-dealing misinformation) had ruthlessly murdered my Pa to cover up their error. Like any true Son of the American Dream, I had sworn vengeance.

The Symbolic Part: My compassionate, understanding government (the good governmental servants of Republican Democracy, not the bad, hires the covert, secret, black-bag, unaccountable private contractors/ pawns of the Wall Street Elite bureaucrats) allowed me to participate in a multi-national taskforce. These selfless guardians of the freedom had formed a coalition which had hunted down the villains.

With the priceless assistance of two Central European countries, who currently had to remain nameless (cough: Hungary and Romania), we'd achieved a final, violent confrontation in which my allies and I had emerged bloody, scarred, yet victorious. Once more, free men and women had answered the call of duty and some had made the ultimate sacrifice.

See, I had a good government that cared enough about me to let me become a gun-toting menace to the civilized world. Like a Hollywood Western hero of the 1950's, 60's and 70's, I had taken personal revenge against the forces of wickedness - exit the railroad tycoons and cattle barons - enter the shadowy world of private security forces and uncontrolled corporate capitalism.

The Romantic Part: My behind-the-scenes personal protectors (Riki, Javiera and Katrina) were prepping Hana Sulkanen, my fiancé, Brooke Lee (my good female friend), Libra Chalmers (my other good female friend) and Yasmin Palhavã (my sultry Brazilian, single mother and co-worker) to subtly tell the Globe what a sweet, caring, modern, passionate, warm-hearted guy I was.

According to their presentation, I had given up my philandering lifestyle because I only had eyes for Hana. I was a handsome, sexually-successful man who was cleaning up my dark past before devoting himself to family life. The other girls were merely friends. How that didn't make me a metrosexual wasn't clear to me. Also, if anyone thought this would become my new reality, they were sorely mistaken. I was hornier than ever and I hadn't sexed up a lady since dawn.

Around midnight, the 4th Division's Commander gave up on me extracting myself from this complicated morass and sent an aide to barrage me with questions - all of which I had answered numerous time before, by the time he got there. He was also to stop me from 'sneaking away'. How me and my forty-something numbered current entourage would accomplish this? Not sure.

Note on the Cáel Geopolitical Situation:

Ireland: Here was their take on the situation - I was an O'Shea. The word 'Illuminati' was never mentioned. This guy was not 'in the know'. I was son of the O'Shea clan and despite having crossed the Atlantic, I remained an honorary member of the Irish Diaspora - a reborn Tuath Dé Danann; a wayward son to be proud of. It was that whole 'manly, vengeance, compassion/warrior-poet' deal going down. I could keep my fraudulent diplomatic ablative shielding (emphasis on the 'ablative).

The United States: The well-wishers who chastened me over yet another staring match with Death were exceeded by the numbers and majesty of those who were telling me don't do another God damn thing that makes the US look bad crowd. If I planned to do anything spontaneous, or show initiative, I had to give them fair warning first. I wasn't sure how that would work.

Somewhere along the line, I figured I'd be awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom while warming a bunk at Guantanamo Bay. I could put it next my autographed picture of Vladimir Putin that I was sure I'd get for Christmas. I got it from both barrels about me being a member of a Secret Society and an obscure public figure (I now had added 1750 online friends in the last few hours and my popularity was exploding exponentially ... did that make me a virus?).

I reminded each and every one of them that this was NOT MY GOD-DAMN JOB! I was an intern gopher, I lived in a neighborhood that qualified me for the an automatic subscription to the NRA's American Rifleman and a Life Time membership if I remained bullet-proof for a decade, and I was the victim of pent up divine female aggression. I wanted some fucking sympathy.

On the 'we still love you side', I met a really swell US Army Ranger Lieutenant from Mississippi and his 9-man squad. Except for him constantly, loudly and publically referring to the Spetsnaz as 'those Commie Bastards', we got along just fine.

In the bonus round over the telephone, I had three Very Important People, Assistant Secretary of State for European and Eurasian Affairs (ASSEEA) Victoria Nuland, Assistant Secretary of State for South and Central Asian Affairs (ASSCAA) Robert O. Blake Jr., and Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and Pacific Affairs (ASSEAP) Daniel R. Russel, all gift me with brief words of encouragement (if 10 minutes counts as brief) plus they HAD to talk with me when I got back home (aka Washington DC, which wasn't my home).

Ass-EE! - Ass-Caa(w) - Ass-Eap! Don't any of these people look at their freaking letterheads? I decided I could work with Victoria. Sure, she was a 40-something, married with two kids, but that had never stopped me before. She passed along something for me to consider as my next project; Russia, the Khanate and Georgia.

I wasn't sure how she knew Georgia Lansky and I was sure Georgia would never be up to a gang-bang on that scale. Riki 'suggested' she meant Georgia, the country, not the girl or the state. Still confused, Riki then enlightened me about Russia gobbling up two chunks of Georgia before I was an adult.

Did anyone seriously think I could convince Comrade President Putin to cough up anything he had liberated