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Operation Inner Light : GI Joe vs. The Corps!
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02-14-2019, 04:48 AM
DerStahlhelm
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
Chapter Twenty Three
January 21, 1985, The Pentagon, Arlington, Virginia
Colonel Choate flipped up the collar of his uniform overcoat against the January chill while he waited for his driver to pull around.
People often underestimated the value of rumor in intelligence work. The rumor, however, was almost the job’s stock in trade, the tiny thread that once pulled could unravel something much, much larger. The Colonel collected rumors like some men collected stamps.
The hot rumor in the intelligence community for the last few days was that the mysterious Midtown Manhattan gun battle and car chase that had made the news had been somebody’s op gone wrong. Nobody seemed to know what it was about or what agency was involved, but Choate had his suspicions.
Those were virtually confirmed when another rumor, that General Clayton Abernathy was in Washington and at the Pentagon, had started to circle. Jody knew the General by reputation, and was privy to the details of his assignment. Abernathy was a rare sight in DC, and the timing was too perfect to be coincidence. He had been summoned to appear to answer questions about that Manhattan debacle, Choate was sure, and a modest amount of digging had equally convinced him that Ted Jones’ men had been the focus of that operation.
He had purposely probed Abernathy on the elevator ride. Choate could read a man the way a kid read a comic book, and the General’s reaction had told him all he needed to know.
His car pulled around and his driver opened the back door for the Colonel to get in.
“Home, sir?” The driver asked as the car pulled away from the curb.
“No.” Choate answered. He glanced at his watch. Bambi would still be working.
“The office. I’ve got a few calls to make.”
January 21, 1985, Eisenhower Executive Office Building, Washington, DC
Bambi Tower had made Colonel Choate the envy of every man in Washington.
His 25 year old secretary had been busy shredding some paper when he had entered the office suite, but the blonde former fashion model had flashed him her megawatt smile and immediately come to take his service cap and overcoat as he entered.
“Thanks, babe.” Choate said. “I’ve got some calls to make, so I’d prefer not to be disturbed.”
“Sure thing, boss.” Bambi said and swayed back to her desk, her mountain of elaborately styled hair bouncing as she went.
The Colonel closed his office door behind him and reached for his STU-II secure phone. He punched a five digit code into the keypad and hit the key that toggled the phone into secure mode. A few seconds later the handset’s warbling screech indicated his terminal’s 2400 baud connection to the receiving terminal at NSA headquarters in Ft. Meade, Virginia had been made.
“SIGINT desk, go ahead.” An electronic voice answered.
Choate had made enough STU calls in his career to be able to recognize Lt. Barney Riegert’s voice even through the encryption unit’s distortion.
“Barney, it’s the Colonel. I’ve got a couple tasks for you.”
He hung up a few minutes later, switched his STU back into clear mode, and dialed the number for the Four Seasons.
He hoped Ted Jones was still in town.
January 21st, 1985, Royal Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel, Washington, DC
Jones had seemed surprised by the Colonel’s call, but had readily agreed to meet with him immediately.
“Can I get you a scotch, Colonel?” The billionaire asked him, motioning him to sit on the couch in the suite’s living room area.
“Nothing for me, thanks.” Jody answered. “I don’t have time, I’m afraid.”
Jones’ made an expression of mock offense.
“Straight to business, then.” Jones said, taking a seat in the leather chair across from him, “What can I do for you?”
Choate leaned back on the plush couch and drummed on his thighs.
“I’ve just got a couple of questions for you, Ted.” He said, “Starting with: What the hell happened in Manhattan?”
The color left Jones’ face for just a nano second before he regained his composure.
Hell of a poker face, Choate thought, but he hasn’t dealt with me yet.
“What do you mean?” Jones asked.
The Colonel held up his hand.
“Don’t, Ted. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. What’s going on?”
Jones sighed.
“Alright.” Ted said. “There’s been a reporter...”
“You mean Hector Ramirez...” Choate interrupted again.
“Fine.” Ted continued, now more than a little irritated. “Ramirez was digging into the Corps, with the help of an NYPD detective. Stuff neither of us would like to become public knowledge. I was trying to take care of it, but the whole thing went sideways.”
“Not the NYPD.” Choate said.
Jones couldn’t hold his poker face this time.
“What do you mean?!” He snapped.
“Have you heard of the Joint Operations Executive?” The Colonel asked, and Ted could hear the capital letters fall into place. “The JOE team is a top secret, multi-branch antiterrorist task force with assets from CIA and Justice. That’s who blew your little secret mission.”
Ted Jones was on his feet now, and visibly upset.
“Relax, Ted. If they had anything good on you you’d be talking to the FBI right now, not me. My guess is that Ramirez went to them. Rumor is they have a history, a little news story about the JOEs from a few years ago that never made it to air for some reason.”
Choate stood as well, and got very close to the billionaire.
“I’ve got a friend at NSA who I’ve put on this. Any peep from these guys or Ramirez and I’ll let you know. But I suggest you take care of your problem yesterday, and quietly this time.”
“Of course.” Ted said, trying to project a confidence that was now clearly shaken. “It’s already in motion.”
“Good. I’ll support you anyway I reasonably can, but I’ll tell you something else. Despite the media’s picture of ol’ Ronnie as a kindly, half senile cowboy, if you fuck with the US government, I promise you that Bonzo will land on you with both feet.”
January 23rd, 1985, Edgewater, New Jersey
Hiro Yamada sat, perched in a tree, observing the house that held his quarry.
He’d been doing that for the past four nights, studying his prey. Even the most seemingly erratic person had patterns of behavior that they kept to, and Hector Ramirez had proven no different. It was just past two AM, and Yamada’s observations told him the troublesome reporter would be asleep by now.
Jones’ previous brute force attempts to silence the reporter had failed, and a more subtle approach was needed.
Yamada leapt from his perch to another nearby tree, and then again, from tree to tree, until he landed silently on the roof of Ramirez’s house. He ran in a crouch along the roof’s peak to the far end of the dwelling.
The ninja crouched down, preparing to lower himself into the unlocked bathroom window that was just below him.
Suddenly Yamada became alert. It was not a sound that warned him, but the opposite, a void in the surrounding ambience that told of the the presence of a silent other.
He rolled to the side with lightning speed, the space he had occupied a millisecond before now filled with a stomping blow from the roof’s other occupant.
A flick of his wrist deployed his tekko-kagi, the triple bladed wrist claw that was the traditional weapon of Yamada’s former Geki clan, and he lunged in for a counter strike.
His opponent effortlessly sidestepped Yamada’s strike and leap back several meters along the roof’s peak.
Yamada could see his attacker clearly now, as he stood, legs wide and holding a katana at waist level pointing in the opposite direction, Sha No Kame. He appeared to be wearing a tight, black bodysuit, and his eyes were obscured by something that resembled the slitted visor of a European knight’s helmet.
He wasted no time launching another blow at his mysterious attacker.
His strike was again deflected, and the silence of the night was broken by the clash of steel as the two parried each other’s attacks.
Yamada was confused by his attacker’s technique. It blended several styles, but the underlying discipline seemed to be Arashikage ninjutsu. This alone should have made his opponent very deadly, but while his defense was masterful, his attacks seemed sloppy and amateurish.
The ninja lashed out with his claws again but his opponent dodged the strike and followed up with a surprising blow with his katana to Yamada’s thigh.
The strike should have severed the ninja’s leg, but instead had been a hard slap with the side of the blade that had temporarily caused the leg to go numb.
Yamada realized now that what he had taken for a lack of skill in his opponent had in fact been his intent to capture, not kill.
This man was a master, perhaps Yamada’s equal.
He could no longer be certain if this contest’s outcome, and couldn’t allow himself to be captured.
Yamada leapt backwards, kicking a spray of snow at his opponent’s face as he did so. This was immediately followed up with a spread of three shuriken.
The other ninja had blocked the throwing stars with ease, but the attack had bought Yamada enough time and distance to leap from the roof and back into the trees and make his escape.
He glanced backwards as he fled to see if he was being pursued, but his opponent simply stood at the edge of the roof in a deep bow of respect.
A master indeed.
January 24th, 1985, near Bozeman, Montana
John Eagle flipped open the feed cover of the M-60 and removed the pin that held the stock in place. He was assigned to the armory and today he and Whipsaw were performing maintenance on the Corps' general purpose machine guns.
"Hey, man, can I talk to you about something?" He asked Whipsaw.
"Yeah, sure." The other man replied. He was one of the Corps dedicated machine gunners, and was rarely seen without his wide brimmed campaign hat.
"I'm not sure about that whole thing up in Vermont." Eagle said.
Whipsaw looked up from the gun he was stripping. His real name was Jeff Walker, though he hadn't been called that in years, and he was a Montana native.
"One hundred percent dead Bad Guys and a shit ton of good press for us, sounds like mission accomplished to me." He said.
Eagle sighed.
"Yeah, but it's not just that. This whole thing was supposed to be a stunt. Rattle those FBI guys a little bit and then roll in to save the day. Instead there's three dead cops, one guy in a coma and another one who probably ain't gonna walk again."
Whipsaw shook his head.
"So what? Those dumbass Feds screwed up and got themselves killed. Who cares?"
"They didn't screw up! I work the armory full time, Whip. Jones drew a couple hundred pounds of Comp H-6 for the Vermont op. None of it got checked back in. That was way more than they needed. We blew up those Feds and Jones went and got a medal for it." John Eagle said.
"Still don't care.” Whipsaw shrugged. “I'm not crying over a couple of federal brown shirts. Whatever gets us closer to where we need to be, ya know?”
John Eagle worked the rest of his shift in silence.
The more he thought about it, the madder Whipsaw got. And he thought a lot as he crunched through the ankle deep snow back to his room in the dormitory.
He was willing to give guys like John Eagle a chance. After all, if you were being honest, his people had as much reason to hate the Feds as he did. So why was he crying about a couple of dead federal stooges? Apparently when it came down to it, he was probably too afraid that his buddies on the Rez would lose their government checks if Jones actually got the government fixed like it should be. Typical Injun.
He'd have to tell Jones about this... if John Eagle wasn't fully on board with the cause he could really screw things up.
Whipsaw turned around and marched back towards Jones' ranch house.
Whatever else you can say about the Corps, John Eagle thought, the chow was a thousand times better than anything he'd had in the Army. The pay was significantly better as well.
He'd grabbed dinner and a couple of Heinekens and was headed back towards the dorms when he spotted Whipsaw marching with a purpose out of the camp and towards Jones' huge house.
"Shit." he said to himself under his breath.
The one time he'd said more than five words to anyone about anything not duty related in the two years he'd been here and he gets tattled on. And by Whipsaw of all people! That boy was dumber than a post.
He picked up the pace as he went back to his quarters. Rumors spread in a outfit like this, and he had little trouble believing the worst of it after the Vermont thing.
He was out of here, tonight, he decided. But not before taking out a little insurance policy...
__________________
Needs : AOCI Lamprey Vests, (or similar), ROC Flash helmets, ROC Shipwreck flippers, 25th Dusty Torsos (or similar), BBTS Bull (Taurus) head, Snake Eyes V.52 forearms.
Last edited by DerStahlhelm; 02-14-2019 at
04:51 AM
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