GWOT VII - Simple Addition

GWOT VII - Simple Addition


As we worked with Mr. Zhou and his team, planning out the details of betting yet another nation on our ability to wrestle down Thanos-America before she finished killing us all... something was bugging me.

Not megadeaths. Not the language of nuclear war. That was almost calming in a way. I'd spent the last four months convinced that we were all going to glow, or worse. Hope was more painful, yes. But that was OK. Pain was my friend. The loss of everyone and everything, not so much.

Dr. Rize. WIth a crying need for trained psychologists, she had just happened to be assigned to Collections. Yes, she was doing intel work, and I can see how the Resistance might value her assets over her, ahem, assets.

Then she'd stopped by Site, we'd had a fling, she'd been rolled up into the gigantic murderous cluster fuck that was Bear Force, and a "Dear John" postcard drops into my mail. "Oh, by the way, Dr. Rize got waxed."

Oh bullshit. Bear Force wouldn't waste a psychologist as a front line trooper. More like needed her to design whatever training program they had that made broken and hurting people into living weapons systems, smart bombs just dumb enough to blow up on target.

The California Republic doesn't give out rank easily. Major Rize had done a hell of a lot for the Republic to earn that star. I'd run a prison and a border Sector before I'd gotten mine. Publicly I'd been credited with saving an order of magnitude more lives than I'd taken. Privately I knew better.

The work talk wound down. We would - with the help of the People's Liberation Army, both dry and wet - take our chances with what we had.

Mr. Zhou saw the second glance I shot at Betty and suggested that we might want to break for a shower and refreshment. There would be a dinner at sundown on the 'Edge,' overlooking the bowl of the gazebo.

To my surprise I realized that a few hours remained in this early summer afternoon. A helicopter ride, the fate of nations -- but one second per second is relentless.

The VIP suite had a thoughtful layout. Two rooms controlled access to a central suite. The SDF crew broke open their gear and started setting up alarms to control both of those. Somehow their submachine guns were always in easy reach as they did.

I put the McGuffin - the duffel containing the Cube - on the floor after checking under the bed and in the closets. Old habits of a lifetime in security die hard. I planned to die harder. I checked the grenade at my belt.

Betty excused herself promptly to use the facilities. I was not even a little tempted to turn on the enormous wall-dominating flat screen TV four-plex. More suitable for command post than for entertainment.

I poured myself a glass of water and sat in the comfy armchair to relax. Iced tea would have been better, but I didn't want to impose on our hosts.

They also needed some time to digest. Mr. Zhou was doubtless making some calls and sending some messages, letting his people - or People! - know what was up.

They too were inflicted by the torture of hope.

Betty came back out. She selected a beer from the minibar. Took one sip. Saw my face and put it down.

I spoke.

"Now I know who did my mental health evaluation, and why I passed it. How much did you have to lie?"

"You flunked it, Echo," she said calmly. As I were not capable of using my hands, or the grenade, or the Cube, or anything damn else. No filters, no restraints.

"But I wasn't evaluating your mental health. I was evaluating your results. You do that. You make results. You made a lifeboat of Site. You made a high school into a justice center. You made broken remnants of camps and people into a secure border. And in Iowa, you made scattered and scared refugees into a government.

"Now you get to make a world."

She leaned in close, fervently, with no hint of either affection or compassion.

"Don't fuck up."

"You remind me a lot of the Governor when you talk that way," I said mildly.

"Pat and I talked about you. More than once."

"You met Pat?"

"I was on the selection committee for her personal security detail."

"Hmmm. You picked a pronoun. Interesting."

"I'm old fashioned. Pat gave me shit for it too. I said 'it' is for carpets and Pat laughed and laughed. Then said I'd described a girlfriend."

I took a sip of water, wishing it were cola. Or maybe vodka.

"So. Not to revisit our first conversation or anything, but ... why didn't you reach out to me?"

She didn't have to say "Honestly" at the beginning of what she said next. We were both professional liars; she was the better actor.

"I didn't want you to lose your edge. I knew you were running Alviso and that it was a train wreck. I heard you were going to the SF Recovery Project, I figured you were going to join the counterintel group there - it's one place we stick a lot of American sympathizers. Shock treatment. Next thing I knew, you were on the Border. And I was ... operational. Figured I'd actually get killed soon enough."

"So how does a nice psychologist like you go into Ops? Pissed off your bosses?"

"I'd set up the Bear training program. Nasty piece of work. Then performance improvement for cadre. Internal security. I helped design the SDF. Picked the psych quals, designed their training programs and picked their CO and officers. A bunch of frightened little kids with submachine guns, too scared to do anything but what they're told to do."

Both SDF troopers stopped what they were doing to stare at Rize. She didn't seem to notice.

"I kept finding excuses to go forward. My work suffered. You're right about my bosses, they told me to go back to my cubicle or I would be a front line officer with a life expectancy of days. I ... might have set my cubicle on fire."

Bear Force. She really was perfect for them.

"Then of course, on Ops you don't notice anything but whether your blood is still on the inside."

Greatly daring, I asked, "So, who was your mental health support?"

"Some guy I was fucking."

Why was I not surprised? There had been some method to California's madness. But one of the architects of our present crazy had risen to full stark raving mad and disabled the alarm system that should have warned everyone.

Or the alarm had worked, and they had put her on the front line in the hopes she'd get killed.

Bear Force did that a lot.

I had no illusions about Dr. Rise. Profound respect, and affection, but no illusions.

She had no illusions about me, either. Knew me better than anyone else alive.

I jerked my thumb towards the two SDF people still shell-shocked staring at her.

"I think you owe them a great big apology."

"Probably. They're the best SDF has to offer. That's why they get the tough jobs, the coolest submachine guns, and a cookie if they're good. They can suck it up."

Amazingly enough, neither of them shot her. They did go back to their equivalent of resting while keeping the room secure.

"So, what are your plans after the War?" she said. As if calmly. But it wasn't.

"I don't have any. I seem to be scheduled to be vaporized in the next few days."

"If we live."

I shrugged.

"If we live, and I fucked it up, I'll join Bear Force and find some really juicy target. I trained a lot on taking apart American defense sites at the seams, after all."

The other other reason we'd been in Iowa.

"What if we live and we didn't fuck it up?"

"I think a lot of people are going to be very pissed at me. Not just in America. You know, Pat and I expect that we're going to lose at least two cities. That's millions of Californians. Some of the people who loved them are going to come looking for me. And some will be military. Makes retirement unlikely. Besides, how will I support myself?"

She blinked.

"I was thinking that you'd have trouble avoiding a political career. If you save us all from America, the problem will not be keeping you from being elected Governor, but being elected God."

"No. No more making life and death decisions for me. Done. Fucking done. If we pull this one off."

"How about San Francisco?"

"Hmmm?"

"The Recovery Project will still be there. All the experts will probably get yanked to the new craters. If not ours, America's. Leaves space for a psychologist and a skilled manager."

I feigned shock.

"Are you suggesting that we work at the same site so that we can co-habitate? Before marriage? I am shocked, simply shocked."

"Yes and no, you stubborn son of a bitch. I want a beach wedding. Small. Maybe fifty people. And not a single fucking gun in sight. For once."

Now I was actually, honestly shocked.

"Which of us wears a dress? One, both, or neither?"

She shrugged.

"We'll let the details figure themselves out. But I want cake. Lots of cake. Lots and lots of cake." She turned her head. "Look away, kids."

And helped herself once again to a piece of me.

Bruce - Finals Week. Part One

Bruce - Finals Week, Part One

[Astute readers may have noticed that my gen eral disclaimer mentions a specific religious group. I will note formally that this is a fictional story. It is however based on numerous real life events, including two the author personally witnessed.]

I've never been able to hold down a 'real' job. A civilian job. There are various reasons. I can't keep my fucking mouth shut. I have "oppositional defiance disorder" and a "filthy mouth." I should "show more respect to [my] fucking elders which is everybody!"

So I have to take what jobs I can get. Or make up. Sometimes people will pay you money to do stuff. These jobs pay poorly and are very high risk. But when you can't really afford that 30% to Unclar Sahm or the mound of paperwork you can't come up with, you take what you can get.

I remember one where I basically stood in someone's upstairs window with a shotgun for two days. Special circumstances. They were moving out the back, a few sticks of furniture and a couple bags at a time, and my task was to draw attention away from this effort. Easy work, except for the broken glass and the cut on my face and having to clean out my underwear when someone took a shot at the shadow I cast.

This one is a lot more work. It wasn't the type of work I liked. First of all, I was part of a team. That was something I hated. Second, I was on a college campus so I could not have any weapons at all. "Ain't got no gun, ain't got no knife..." This did not apply to our adversaries, of course.

My age was to my advantage. I could convincingly appear to be a college student as long as no one actually arrested me and required me to produce ID. I didn't carry any. So that would mean the campus police contacting the real police, who would know exactly who I was and ask "What's Bruce doing at the U?"

I had a name, "Bryan," and a campus sweatshirt, and a backpack with some dollar store books in it. To my amusement, one had been written by one of the professors in my selected fake major, Psychology. I'd done a recon of that building and memorized some names of faculty and TAs just in case.

I was also wearing an earbud to an expensive radio. This team shit.

Our team leader called himself "Mike" which was as much a lie as my "Bryan." I strongly suspected that he was in fact carrying. We had three other players on our team I knew about. I'll call them Albert and Baker and Charlie. You don't need to know anything else about them, or about Mike either.

Three hundred reasons a day for me to keep my mouth shut about the details. This promised to be a good gig.

We had a protectee. White female, 20 years of age, long blond hair, hazel eyes. An actual Psychology major, you understand. I had her class schedule.

Problem is, so did the bad guys.

Their objective was to take her into custody. Unlawful custody as far as we were concerned. Felony kidnapping.

Out on the streets where I played for keeps, you could shoot kidnappers.

College campuses frown on this. First of all, no guns. Second, no gunplay. Third, no bad publicity. Bad things never happen on college campuses, and if they do, the administration has a cleaning service on speed dial. Campus police are read in on the drill as well. All crimes must be strictly reported under the Federal Cleary Act. Therefore, no crimes happened that require reporting. Clear? Or would you like to go back to the city department and bagging bodies in Southwest or the Avenues or whatever the local shithole is?

So why couldn't we get a restraining order?

Ow, don't make me laugh. My ribs ache.

The kidnappers had money and pull. They had rental cars and were mostly dressed in their uniform, white shirts black slacks and a black tie. You could even squint and see where the name tag had been removed.

Not necessarily the best players. They were not exactly A game at this. Loyal, dedicated, disciplined believers. They would do as they were told, not because they were paid, but because they loved their God.

We couldn't count on it. They might have a ringer. Or hire pros. And we knew they had friends in local law. Not campus law, thank God, or we'd be fucked.

So why did they want her?

Her family were of the same persuasion, she was off their script, and they felt she needed to be "rescued" and "helped."

Normally of course, it wouldn't take much to kidnap a college student. Just set up a discreet tail, wait for a moment, bag and trunk and drive to a deserted location, then decide whether to use restraints, zip ties, duct tape, baseball bats, or a small caliber handgun with a silencer or a disposable pillow.

I'd survived two such encounters. That's not the usual outcome.

But she was very much on her guard. And she had friends. It wasn't clear who her friends were. They had the money to hire Mike and he had hired the ABC gang and me.

Also in my backpack, I had:

-- four lengths of one inch webbing, each about ten feet in length
-- a pair of EMT shears
-- two small, powerful flashlights
-- a trauma first aid kit, heavy on the dressings, no band-aids
-- four wedges of wood painted black

Nothing that could be considered a weapon. I had $60 in small bills in my pockets and a wallet with a printed fake credit card and something that looked like a driver's license until you looked at it in good light and realized it was Ipso Carpe Diemdium. Enough to hire a cab, buy a few meals, get a bag of groceries. Not enough to rent a hotel room or a stripper.

I also had a folded map of campus. Whenever the chance permitted, I studied it.

She could leave campus right now and be safe. But she would flunk her classes and not be able to continue in her major. It had cost her thousands of dollars to get to this point, and she didn't want to give that up.

Being kidnapped and brainwashed by religious extremists would also end her college career, however.

So we had to keep a known person safe on a fixed schedule. That, folks, is the shit.

If they didn't have a copy of her class schedule, we could shell game and they would have to spread out their recon. Likely that we would win one for the Gipper.

But they did. That means four occasions - four final exams - where protectee is in a known room at a given time, or shortly before. Fuckin' A hard corps. Or maybe corpse. I didn't have to carry a weapon to be deadly.

In addition to being well paid, for once, my entire sympathies were with the protectee.

She did not know me from shit. She knew Mike. He had the close in role. If she saw that I was not a student, or that I was odd behaving in any way, she would assume I was an aggressor and tune me up.

I had no idea if MIke had given her any weapons.

I would have.

So the first final was Introduction to Criminology. Ironic that. One of those four hundred fifty student lecture halls with the students assigned to write a paper.

So no one would notice if there were one more. Me.

Per ops brief, she would sit left middle row. Her primary would be down and out left, with Mike and A ready to run interference. Her secondary would be hey diddle across the middle and out the right half doors; I would follow and B and C would screen. Her tertiary would be out the top the way she came, a bad last resort but better than nothing. Everyone else would be in motion and trying to cover, I would be point and likely candy for the bad actors.

My earpiece carried three frequencies. Campus police tactical, city police dispatch and our team freq. I listened to each.

I joined the crowd at the doors to get a good seat. I got out my blue essay book and my #2 pencil like a good little criminologist. The professor - stoned out of his ass - and his six teaching assistants in their uniform of pithy T-shirt and blue jeans started up the final.

He chalked up the question on the board. It was damn near illegible. But I wasn't here for a grade. One of the TAs, with more presence of mind than the others, read it out loud three times for different parts of the cavern like room. The professor didn't even notice.

I scrawled stupid shit, basically riffing off Shakespeare interspersed with the periodic table under plexiglass on one wall, as I watched for anyone to make a move.

As coached, she finished fast. Not quite the first, but definitely top 20% of the class. She only needed to pass. And not get kidnapped.

In retrospect, I should have found some way to cover the earpiece. Woolen hat? Neutral color for the ear piece? Makeup smeared on the wire?

Because one of the damned TAs grabbed my arm and said, "You're cheating! You're wearing a _radio_."

Shit. I did _NOT_ want to cause a scene. I did not want the protectee to make me, nor did I want any other psuedo-students to either.

Too late. I'm in a scene.

So I said to him in a stage whisper, still trying for damage control, "Do you know who I am?!?"

He shook his head. No surprise as he'd never even seen me before.

So still with backpack slung on my back, I dashed down the stairs, raced towards the pile of papers, threw my unintelligible worthless essay into the pile, and dashed for the same door our protectee would be using in a minute.

As I went through it, I went ass over teakettle into two men wearing black slacks and white shirts with black ties. They had been standing by the door and didn't expect the closed door to slam open as someone like me went through it at warp speed.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"When ambushed, attack."

So I used my momentum to unsling the backpack and give one of the fuckers the Good News Of Our Lord Jesus Christ as hard as I could with the backpack. With the psychology textbook in it.

His head snapped back and he collapsed like his strings had been cut.

His partner froze in horror. Stared at me, stared at him.

Most people would run. Straight up.

He grabbed his buddy by the shoulders and started dragging him away.

While that wasn't the best outcome, it was better than nothing.

I kept running. I had staged three unlocked bicycles nearby. Two of them were still there. I got on one and clicked my mike six times.

Team code.

"I'm fucked and out of it."

I was fucked and out of it. Campus police were rolling less than a minute later, followed soon by fire medics and ambo. It took me half an hour of counter surveillance duck and weave to break contact.

An hour later at the hotel, Mike confronted me.

"Good work, kid. A little flashy, but good work."

That was one. Three to go.

###

A costume change was indicated. Shopping bag with nice broad straps instead of backpack. Several layers of clothes. Outer layer loosely sprinkled with vodka. Scruffy as fuck. Rubbed my face with dirt.

Now I was homeless. And trying to not get anyone's attention. Yet ... I was a mere seventy yards from the Psychology building, in good position to watch the enemy team setting up.

I rolled over in my newspapers and subvocalized into the radio mike clipped to my collar. The ear mike was covered by a woolen cap, itself filthy. I can learn from a fuckup.

"Two on the 1-4 corner, one by the stairs to two, one on the 3 corner looking west."

"How many total."

"Four so far."

Mike didn't say anything. I would have said "Fuck." That was why he was team lead and I was his bitch.

"Contingency David."

They were going for the underground.

Recon, including some by me, had determined that the Psychology Building had one underground entrance known to some students, but not all, through an adjoining lecture hall.

But during finals week, lecture halls were in use for classes.

I got the story later. Mike and the protectee, walking through a physics final. He couldn't think of anything else to do, so he kissed her. And kept kissing her. She kissed him back, and they made kissy face, and thus they wandered through a hundred fifty students frantically trying to pass their physics final without being noticed.

So she got in. Now the problem would be getting her out. And not the way she came in.

[To be continued...]