Enemy One

[very short short using quotes from I think Aliens & Monsters]. Possibly offensive.]

 

 

Wait!

a brief scenario set at The Pentagon, W-DC. Mercenary Ranger, Anthony, and
the idiot General known as Gen Jackass, aka, Gen Jerkoff...

 ....

Ranger:" Wait! Don't press that button!"

Gen Jackass: "Why?"

Anthony:  "It'll send out all of our nuclear weapons.

Gen JA "Then what button will give me latte?"

Ranger:"That would be the one on the left."

Gen JA: ''What idiot designed this?"
 
"You did, sir."

 "Okay then, go fire someone!"
 
 [Mercenary Ranger thinks, Yeah, like who? You?]

 [Anthony chimes in telepathically: Jerkoff's lucky if we just fire him. Cos I got a bullet here with his name on it.]
 
 [Ranger: Mellow out, hermano.]
 
 [Anthony: You're stepping on my lines, bro.]
 
 [Ranger: Whatever.]
 
 [Anthony:*see!?*].

 Gen Jackass sadly stirring his coffee: "My latte isn't mocha colored, it's too pale, eeew. I really love mocha latte, yum."
 
 Ranger and Anthony: "Let's not go there, General."

 They stand there looking aimless and clueless. Finally....
 
 then...
 
 Mercenary Ranger: "Oh for fuck's sake, the missile's aimed at North Korea. Go for it, sir."
 
 "Reeealy, Colonel?"
 
 "Yeah. Zap it. My Korean sucks...and I just bought Stephanie a house at the beach."

 "What?"

 sigh."I don't want to go to North Korea, sir. Push the button." Splat. "The * other* button. Sir."

 the end

 

...............................

A/N This takes place during Hard Eight after Ranger says the no price line and tells Steph to go back to Morelli, then he says he has to leave, has a job. This is my version of that job…..

 “We’re Running a Job for a Federal Agency…”

Ka-boom!

The big doors to the warehouse blew open and all the windows shattered in a hail of flying glass.

Two vehicles drove in through the smoky dust and braked hard a few feet from where we were hiding---a white 600 series Mercedes sedan and a black Hummer. Car doors opened, the guy from the Mercedes stormed out of the back seat before his driver could get it open and the Hummer’s driver jumped down and they faced off.

Mercedes guy yelled, “Look at all that fecking glass. I told you twenty times, you're only supposed to blow the bloody doors off.  But do you listen….”

We were on a job for some nameless government agency, probably DHS or NSA. The president of the United States had vouched---in person---for these guys so I took the contract. And charged an appropriate seven figure sum. I don’t usually trust the No Such Agency types, but their money was good and they had paid promptly without haggling, a pleasant aspect.  We evaded the issue of who our colleagues exactly were by politely just calling  them “feds”.

Heh heh heh---pissed ‘em off, they kept explaining that they were not the FBI and Lester would waft a limp wrist and say, “Whatever.”

So now, hearing the tango yell in English using ‘’bloody” with a totally Brit accent, the closest fed to me looked alarmed. I glanced at Santos who shrugged. We both knew that many of the Arab bad guys were Oxford educated, all that oil money. One little “bloody” and some clipped consonants wasn’t gonna put us off the op.

Seconds later our targets’ confrontation had disintegrated into gutter Arabic cursing, your mother fucks my camel and loves it kinda stuff, and I locked eyes with the fed to make sure he grasped the situation.

I guess he didn’t speak Arabic---where do the feds find these guys?--- because he looked even more puzzled. I gave him a brief firm nod and he settled down.

The original op was for me and Tank---who was up in the far back rafters--- to throw out flash bangs—stun grenades. We were also armed with automatic assault rifles and I had my favorite sawed off hooked to the back of my belt. Lester though had only a sound-suppressed, scoped rifle---the plan after the noise from the grenades was for him to take the tangos out with a few fast shots to the head. I have a better throwing arm and he’s a decent—oh okay---excellent shot.

But we had pictured the cars stopping in the center of the empty except for the dirty bombs warehouse---we didn’t think they’d pull all the way over by the back wall, where of course we were hiding.

There were other feds scattered around but they had no jobs. Even the guy with me was just---flotsam? ballast?—oh hell, he was a dead weight. I ignored him, miming to Lester that he should throw the flash bang and I’d just use my knife up close, quiet and fast. He nodded, reached for a stun grenade and came up empty.

He hissed, “Yo!” but I was already tossing him one of my flashes. The fed gasped and Les and I grinned. I signed for the fed to cover his eyes and ears and he nodded. I made sure he was paying attention---effin’ amateurs---counted off with my fingers and also on my mic to Tank and my men.

“3-2-1.”

Kaboom. Again. And it was done.

…  …   …

After the smoke cleared and the tangos were either dead or cuffed, still stunned and deaf, we stood around at the front of the warehouse, that stupid aftermath thing where you’re just glad it’s done and you survived.

The half-dozen or so Rangeman operatives and a gaggle of Feds stood with me and Tank and Santos. They watched goggle-eyed as Lester, a little giddy from adrenaline overload, threw his arm around my shoulder and said, “Rangeman! Dude. That throw. The grenade—at just the right moment….”  <big sappy sigh> “….you---complete me.”

Everyone except Tank gasped. I run a tight ship but I’m also an experienced officer and even Ranger Manoso knows that a bit of levity can be healthy. After a tense operation everyone needs to unwind, to come down.

And you know, my cousin Lester isn't the only one who can  quote sappy chick flick lines.

I turned in his embrace and said, “You had me at Yo.” And planted a big fake kiss on his silly grinning mouth.

Stark silence, then he stepped back, wiped his mouth on his black Rangeman uniform sleeve, and whispered, “Eeeuuuuw.”

I grinned and a passing car banged into the feds’ Suburban.

My whole crew cracked up laughing while the feds watched with...I’m gonna say awe, ‘cause if I say disgust and disbelief  I'll have to be annoyed with them. And I’m pretty sure they don’t want that.

Beside us Tank’s deep voice finally rumbled, “Let’s go, children. Break it up. Party’s over.”

Now I have to clean up and go see if I can fix things with Stephanie.  Now that will be a challenge.

.............................

the end

and they all, even Lester and the fed---but not the tangos, lived HEA.

A/N 2-“tangos” is tough guy speak for bad guys or terrorists

Two stories of a possibly controversial subject. Read at your own discretion.
NOT rated M.

I Didn't Ask to be Famous

Note: Possibly offensive content?

From Louisville (KY) Courier Journal:

May 6, 2011President Obama honors troops in visit to Fort Campbell:

FORT CAMPBELL, Ky. — Raid was 'job well done,' he says. Five days after a daring raid killed 9/11 terrorist leader President Barack Obama flew to Fort Campbell on Friday to personally thank the Navy commandos and Army pilots who carried out the operation, along with other troops recently returned from fighting in Afghanistan.

May 2011

"Kentucky."

"Yes, Colonel. The President wants to thank the, uh, SEALs stationed at Fort Campbell. In Kentucky."

"Why would a SEALs team be stationed in Kentucky? There's no ocean there. Hence, no navy."

"Kentucky?" echoes Anthony. Anthony has trouble finding New Jersey, let alone Kentucky. "Is that, like a flyover state, dude? Near Chicago?"

I nod. "Yeah."

"Man, like they got a river, don't they? Ohio River? Mississippi? Something, dude. Riverboats with paddlewheels?"

"But no naval vessels, hermano," I tell him kindly.

"Huh."

Does my genius brother really not know where Kentucky is? Or that the US's rivers are major shipping lanes with large container barges? Of course he knows all that, he is just pulling the chain of the White House press secretary.

The Presidential press secretary looks a little nervous. Probably he is thinking Anthony shouldn't have been one of the guys with the kill shot go-ahead orders in his pocket.

But hey. It worked, right? Double tap, and all that.

...

Less than a week ago I stood on the deck of a an aircraft carrier, helping unload computer hard-drives and black trash bags full to bursting with crap we lifted from that low-rent "mansion" they keep showing on TV.

When I saw the house during the pre-op briefings I had serious concerns that Anthony would buttonhole our target, billionaire to billionaire, mano a mano and have a sincere chat with the guy about how the very rich should live. Thankfully Anthony stuck to orders and just got the job done as planned.

Now a couple of the "SEALs" yelled, "Last one!" and  slung out a heavy extra large contractors' bag onto the metal deck of the ship.

I toed it and looked at the man in charge here. He was middle aged and, unlike myself, he had lots of gold stuff on his uniform. Maybe he outranked me...maybe not. Navy stuff is outside my operational purview as a general rule. As are large ships that are not Anthony's truly tacky (but fun) mammoth yacht.

Anyway my black clothing said nothing, no name, no rank, just a grey on black USA flag on the outside knee of my combat pants.

The officer asked, "Is that...?"

"Yeah. Garbage," I told him.

"We have orders to provide a proper burial."

"Yeah?" If he thinks I'm flying this corpse to Iran or someplace that wants it, he's wrong. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Lester and Brown and a few of my other guys sort of discreetly sidling off towards the large unmarked heli down deck. It too had a grey Stars and Stripes; its tail numbers and the RMPMC lettering were covered with vinyl-magnetic strips, like giant fridge magnets the exterminator or your dentist gives you. We'd land somewhere quiet and peel them off before we landed in  A-Stan. Maybe.

"We have orders to bury it---him---at sea."

I shrugged. "Your call, man."

"But, like, man, I surf in this sea, I donate to Save the Oceans. I belong to Surfrider Foundation," whined Anthony. "That's pollution."

The naval officer stared at Anthony, then turned back to me. "I have orders. Sir. Sirs."

"Oh what the hell...." Anthony headed off after the other Rangeman guys.

The SEALs who remained, if indeed these military commandos were SEALs, lined up quickly and saluted me. I nodded, shook hands, said, "Good job, boys."

...

And we came home. Now some idiot wants us to go to Kentucky for a photo op? The president certainly knows where I live if he really needs to see me, right? And he has my cell phone number.

Anthony says to me, "Prob'ly the Prez wants to get out of town, bro. His wife is probably still pissed that she didn't get a piece of royal wedding cake. They can make a weekend of it, go to the Derby even. Cheer up the missus and all. Have mint juleps."

I turn and look at him. "What?"

"You know. Like, Tank told you...we held off the op because the kid in the UK was getting married. The bride wanted her Warhol moment?"

"What?" ask the press secretary and I.

"Her ten seconds of fame?"

I stare for another few beats, mentally adding annoyance surcharges to my future government contracts.

The press lackey says, "We consider that a locked door. What the First Lady does or does not think---or feel---is not something the administration is willing to trot out for public consumption."

"Yeah, but, dude, maybe she really likes cake?"

I know another woman who really likes cake and I plan to spend tonight in her---our---bed, not on a plane to fucking Kentucky. Cake optional.

I say, "Look, I'm not something the administration wants to trot out either. You wants a dog and pony show for the voting public, why don't you use the regular army? What do you need us for?"

"Some damn fool accused you of being the best."

"And?"

"Okay, okay, you are! You did it, you got the evil boogeyman," The press secretary throws up his hands in disgust.

Anthony thinks, Oh man. How gay is that. "Public enemy number one," he says out loud.

"Yes! So...the president..."

"He murdered 3000 Americans, including my father," I tell the man.

Maybe.

"And mine," volunteers Anthony.

Maybe.

"So it was my---uh---pleasure. To get the job done."

"Excellent!"

"But you tell the president: we don't do Kentucky."

the end

a/n: for those readers not in the US, "The Derby" referred to is the Kentucky Derby, a horse race in Louisville KY, 130 + year old tradition on the first Saturday in May. It is the most prestigious horserace here and notable for accompanying parties which often feature an old-time-y bourbon whisky drink called a mint julep.(sort of a bourbon mojito?) served in old silver cups.....

second story below, pls scroll down
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In honor of our Special Forces soldiers. No disrespect intended. Heartfelt thanks.

Possibly offensive .

*The quote is from Ten Big Ones, p.b., pg 72. Disclaimers etc.

Mission Accomplished...or...Gotcha!

He came home to business as usual and an empty seventh floor apartment. No surprise there, it was mid-afternoon, mid-week, an ordinary day in May....

...   ...  ...

I parked behind the new bonds office and silently let myself into the newly rebuilt space. I paused by the banks of file cabinets and took in the scene I've seen so many times. Some things never change. Or at least not much.

Connie was behind her desk and speaking quietly on the phone. Steph sat beside her in the new but still crappy visitors chair. Lula was on the real leather from Bob's Discount Furniture sofa (Cheaper than Faux!), my daughter Zoë beside her. Zoë was scribbling in a Toy Story coloring book and nodding gently to her iPod. The earbuds and her deep concentration kept her from noticing me immediately. Her little dog Killer snored at her side, his face shmooshed against her leg. He looked up at me, assessed me as a non-food source; snorted and went back to doggy dreamland.

The three adult women were glued to the big screen TV that was a new feature here; Connie had insisted that if Vinnie could have a TV for his porn she could
have her soaps and Dr. Phil every day.

The sound was muted. The screen showed CNN with its usual headache inducing flashing presentation: grey-haired talking heads, annoying yellow ribbon endlessly scrolling (FLOODS IN CAIRO ILLINOIS! ) and repetitive blue and white bullet point banners.

A commercial came on. Her tone casual, Lula asked Steph, "So where is Batman?"

Connie hung up the phone and added, "Yeah, I have some high bond files for him."

"He's away on business for a few days," answered Steph.

"Hunh," said Lula.

A few years ago when I was still getting to know Lula and Stephanie, I was headed out for a job and I went back to the bonds office to try to talk Stephanie into using my truck. I entered unnoticed then too, just like today, and Connie was bemoaning my projected absence, asked Steph if she knew where I was going.

Stephanie had simply said No, but Lula chimed in, *"I been noticing the last two
times Ranger took off there was a coup in Central America. I'm going home, and
I'm watching CNN."*

Unexpectedly insightful of Lula, I had underestimated her. Her observation was way too close to the mark.

My handlers at the time had considered intervening, having a talk with Lula. Loose lips sink ships and all that shit...but I figured her attention span was way too small for it to be an issue and we let it go.

I've never since had reason to be concerned. If Lula had suspicions, she kept them to herself.

CNN resumed.

>TERRORIST CONFIRMED DEAD

Old news...

A grey-haired youngish guy came on. Lula said, "That Anderson Cooper, he's pretty hot!"

Connie told her, "Did you know he's Gloria Vanderbilt's son? Hard to imagine..."

"Who?" asked Lula and Steph.

"Gloria Vanderbilt? She invented designer jeans! You must have heard of her!"

Lula shrugged, "I thought Diddy invented them---Sean Jean? Baby Phatt?"

Steph said, "I can only afford Levi's."

That's so not true anymore, but she likes what she likes....

Connie told Lula, "Diddy didn't make Baby Phatt, did he?"

They resumed watching the screen of the big TV.

>MISSION PLANNING TOOK YEARS!

uh huh

>NAVY SEALS HAVE MYTHIC STATURE

If you're a romance novel reader...

>DoD SAYS SEALS ARE OLYMPIC ATHLETES OF  MILITARY ELITE

?

>SEAL TEAM SIX DOES NOT OFFICIALLY EXIST SAYS NAVY WIFE!

Tell that to the guys last weekend...

CNN's producers have ADD so the subject changed for no reason. The next flashing banner read:

>BOUNTY WAS 25 MILLION DOLLARS!

Lula said, "That's a lot of money for one scumbag. Wonder if the SEALS will get that money?"

Connie, "Not likely. It's their job."

>WHO WILL RECEIVE BOUNTY?

Need you ask? What, I'm not running a charity here....

>BODY TREATED IN ACCORDANCE TO MUSLIM CUSTOM

My head filled with horrific images of beheaded US military and civilian

journalists, the burned, mutilated bodies of US soldiers during the Iraq wars.

Muslim custom....huh.

>NINE AND A HALF YEAR SEARCH COST U S TAXPAYERS TENS OF BILLIONS US DOLLARS

Revenge...priceless.

Now Wolfe Blitzer came on. He intoned, "SEAL Team Six officially 'doesn't exist' and is described as the 'elite of the elite.' Even family members are often kept in the dark, the wife of a SEAL tells NBC News. Interviews with Navy wife Casey after these messages."

None of my crew was married to a Casey.Or a gossip... I was guessing this was a DoD---Department of Defense---news  ploy, manufactured fodder for the media feeding frenzy.

Back to random banners.

>U.S. OFFICIALS: THE STILL-SECRET PHOTOGRAPHIC EVIDENCE

SHOWS A PRECISION KILL SHOT ABOVE HIS LEFT EYE

No comment.

> Al Qaeda LEADER IS OLD NEWS

Well, I liked to think of him as unfinished business...now complete.

>JOINT CHIEFS SAYS SEALS COVER A-STAN DELTA FORCE DEPLOYS IN IRAQ

And my guys go wherever....

>THE WAR ON ISLAMIST TERRORISM WILL GO ON, VOWS SEC CLINTON

Good to know I'm not out of a job....

>RELEASE OF DEATH PHOTO IMMINENT

 The women, and especially my four year old daughter, don't need to see that. I must have made some motion because Zoë's head lifted and she saw me.

"Daddydaddydaddy! You're home!" She threw aside her coloring book, the crayons spilled everywhere...and she ran into my arms.

Behind her head the banner read: >MILITARY FAMILIES FEEL TENSION, UNCERTAINTY

I picked her up and hugged her. This was her usual form of greeting, I told myself.

Stephanie turned and looked at me. Our eyes locked, hers so blue, so wide. I kissed her. She smiled at me and said, "So, Ranger. How was Atlanta?'

Good. It was---good.

the end...for now