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07-21-2017, 02:58 PM | #61 |
Crimson Guard
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Thanks!! My plan is to crank out a few more chapters this weekend, if my brain is cooperative.
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07-21-2017, 04:28 PM | #62 |
Crimson Guard
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double post
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07-21-2017, 08:19 PM | #63 |
W.O.R.M.S. Commander
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MIKE Force. Nice. I imagine that might make him a bit of a Loose Cannon, but also possibly a lot of friends who's bacon he may have pulled from the fire.
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07-21-2017, 09:51 PM | #64 |
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That's why he still has a job, haha
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02-14-2019, 04:48 AM | #65 |
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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...
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02-14-2019, 06:02 AM | #66 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
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Chapter Twenty Four
January 25th, 1985, near Bozeman, Montana “No, sir,” Croc said. “He’s a goner.” “Gone?” Ted Jones asked. “Yes, sir.” The Australian former mercenary replied. “His truck is missing and most of his personal stuff is gone from his room. He’s out of here.” Jones began to pace behind his desk. After Whipsaw had come to him last night, he’d intended to talk to John Eagle. To smooth things out and bring him around to the right way of thinking. Now it was too late. “There’s more, sir. And I don’t reckon you’re gonna like it.” Croc said. “What is it?” Ted asked. “I asked around, to see if anyone had seen him last night. After he left the mess He was spotted back at the armory and then at the motor pool. I checked both of those locations. Whipsaw says the armory’s ledger is missing. I couldn’t find anything obvious missing from the motor pool, but O’Grady says that he was messing around in the wrecked Humber.” Jones’ mind started to spin. What was John Eagle planning to do with the armory logs? And what could he have wanted with the the Pig? Realization smacked him in the face. “Oh shit!” He exclaimed, grabbing his coat. “C’mon!” They had practically run across the compound to the motor pool. When they got to the maintenance shed Jones headed straight for the armored truck that had been nearly destroyed in the Vermont operation. Ted threw open the passenger door and stepped up onto the running board. He leaned in and looked under the vehicle’s dashboard. A few wires dangled from the empty hole where Jones’ secret transmitter used to be. “You rat fuck!” Jones screamed, slamming his fist into the dash. “What’s the matter?” Croc asked. “What did he do in there?” Jones leapt down from the Humber Pig. “Take Whipsaw and go after him.” Jones said. “Keep it quiet. Nobody else needs to know about any of this. And when you find him.... Kill him.” January 26th, 1985, L&L Motel, Orem, Utah It was just past midnight as John Eagle walked down Rt. 89 back to his motel room. He’d been driving nonstop for hours and figured he could stretch his legs a little bit and walk to grab some food and beer. He’d forgotten about the Mormon influence in Utah, and local laws had meant his beer mission had failed. He had filled his backpack with snacks and soft drinks however and was looking forward to getting some shut eye. He had just gotten to the edge of the motel’s parking lot when he froze. There was a new truck in the lot and it was one he recognized. The orange 1975 Ford F250 now parked next to his truck belonged to Whipsaw. Shit, he thought, and quickly pulling his 1911 from his coat pocket and crouching into the roadside scrub. Soon enough two figures emerged from the truck and made their way to the door of his room. Even in the dark he could tell they were armed. As soon as the pair made it to the door they kicked it in. The rattling of the actions and muffled report of suppressed submachine gun fire broke the night silence. Holy shit, Jones wasn’t screwing around, John thought. He hadn’t expected the billionaire to go this ballistic, but it was clear he was a dead man if he was found. He quickly took stock of his situation. Luckily he had brought his pack, which held the armory log and transmitter to carry his food. He didn’t see how he’d have recovered it if he hadn’t. He had his wallet and plenty of cash on him, so he wouldn’t have to use his credit card or checks and leave a paper trail for Jones to follow. His truck was gone, of course, but he had been lucky in the rest. “Well, looks like I’m thumbing it.” Eagle said to himself with a sigh. January 27th, 1985, High Desert Gas, Yah-Ta-Hey, New Mexico “Hey, thanks!” John Eagle said to the driver as he hopped out of the cab of the truck, a thin layer of snow crunching under his boots as he hit the pavement of the gas station’s parking lot. John laughed inwardly, Most people didn’t think it snowed in the desert. It could and did, and the high desert of north western New Mexico was nothing if not a place of extremes. Yah-Ta-Hey was not a town, technically, but a “Census Designated Area”, a little grid of dwellings scratched out of that high desert. A community of less than five hundred people, a general store that shared the name, and this gas station, perched on the small rise that looked over the junction of 491 and 264. Miserably cold in the winter, miserably hot in the summer, and miserably poor all year round. But it was home, John supposed, flipping his jacket collar up against the cold and starting off up the hill towards town. As a young man he couldn’t get away from this place fast enough. It wasn’t on the Reservation proper, but still very much in Indian Country, and like a lot of native boys, on the Rez or off, he had joined the army to get away, and hadn’t been back many times since. The wind, with little to break it’s force on the mostly flat, barren landscape, whipped against his body as he trudged down the side of the highway. His grandmother’s house was about a mile away, and at quarter past one in the morning, he’d hoped she’d be able to hear him knocking. He didn’t relish the idea of hanging around outside in this weather until morning. John turned loped off 264 onto Cle Ki drive. The town was mostly trailers and small houses, surrounded by the ramshackle assortment of sheds and garages typical of any rural community. As he passed by, the door to one of the trailers flew open, spilling light onto the mostly dark street. “I told you I’ll fucken’ take care of it tomorrow!” The man who came out of the door shouted back into the house. He slammed it shut again, cutting off the reply of shrill invective that followed. “Hey, John Eagle.” The man said, lighting a cigarette, as if he’d seen John just yesterday. John raised his hand and nodded in way of reply and continued up the street. “This fucking place”, he said to himself, “I haven’t been back in five years!” Thanks to the community gossip network, by dawn everybody here would know he was back. That small town lack of anonymity meant he couldn’t stay here long either. His grandmother’s trailer was at the end of the short road. He noted with a small amount of pride that she still kept up the outside much nicer than most of the other houses. The house was dark, but he opened the creaky screen door and rapped on the inner one. Nothing happened, so he knocked again. A light came on at the other end of the trailer. Before long he could hear his grandmother muttering on the other side of the door. “Do you know what the hell time it is?” She said as the door swung open. “Oh, John Eagle.” She said, showing just slightly more surprise than the neighbor had. “I suppose you’d better come in.” John finished his coffee as he finished his story. His grandmother regarded him from across the kitchen table. The old woman had raised him since he was a boy. His no-account father had drank himself to death before John was five, and his mother had run off the year before that. “So I can’t stay here long.” He said. “No, you stay here as long as you need.” His grandmother replied. “But you’ve got to tell somebody about this. It’s not right, and you won’t be safe until you do.” “I don’t know, Grandma.” He said, “I’ve got plenty of money. I think I might just go down to Panama or Costa Rica or somewhere and lay low.” “John Eagle, no.” She admonished. “You’ve got to do something. You want to run forever? That’s no kind of life. My friend Wilma, you remember her, right? Wilma’s boy has some important job in the army. Talk to him.” “I thought Wilma’s son was a doctor.” John said. “He is. A psychologist or a psychiatrist or something. As soon as he got his degree he joined the army. Damned if I understand why!” John didn’t really want to talk to anyone about this. He just wanted to get away from it.. “Or talk to your cousin Billy.” She continued. “He knows people in Washington, he can help.” John rolled his eyes. Cousin Billy had been a US Senator in the seventies for about five minutes before he was run out of town in a political scandal that would have been a big deal had it not occurred in a decade defined by its political scandals. There had been some other incidents before that, and his reputation on the Rez was either wise hero or obnoxious trouble maker, depending on who you talked to. “Is he still with that ugly-ass white woman?” John asked. His grandmother clucked. “I don’t know why! He’s so handsome!” She said wistfully before she made a disgusted face. If Cousin Billy had a mixed reputation, his wife was pretty universally disliked. “Yes he is.” She said. “Out at that stupid school. Take my truck in the morning and go see him. Please.” John’s grandmother’s pickup rattled to a stop on the gravel drive in front of the cluster of low buildings that was the school. The place had been a big deal back in the sixties. It had started just as a tribal school, but when Cousin Billy’s wife had taken over the administration had opened it to troubled kids from anywhere and transformed into sort of a youth commune. All that hippie bullshit had brought trouble with the local whites, though. When he was young, John had thought Cousin Billy was a hero for standing up to them. Now? Billy had gotten a couple of people killed, brought unnecessary federal attention to the Reservation, and wound up in jail for a while. And for what? John knew that attendance at the school had dropped through the floor after that, but this place looked like it was closed. John went through the lobby doors to an unattended front desk. He waited there for minute in silence, waiting for someone to show up. When no one did, he rang the bell on the desk. The office door next to him opened and a tall, lanky white man with long, thinning hair and a droopy handlebar mustache came through. He had a paisley shirt on under a fringe buckskin vest. Jesus Fucking Christ, John thought. “Hey, brother, what can I do you for?” The man asked. “Hi.” John said. “I’m looking for...” “He’s looking for Billy.” A soft female voice interrupted. John turned to the source. It was Cousin Billy’s wife. The woman was fairly tall, but thin and frail looking, like a strong breeze might cause her to crumble. She had long, pin straight hair, it’s white-blonde having long given way to mostly white. Her face was lined and worn, with watery blue eyes and almost translucent skin. All this made her appear much older than the fifty-something he knew her to be. Fifty going on ninety, He thought to himself. “Billy’s out back by the stable.” She said, ushering him along. They made their way through the mostly empty school building and out the rear exit. The woman motioned toward the stable building a short distance away. “He’s over there.” Indeed, that’s where John found him, mending a the fence that surrounded the stable area. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, though, as the scrub pushing its way through the dirt seemed to indicate the area hadn’t seen a lot of use lately. “John Eagle.” Cousin Billy said, extending his hand. “It’s been a while.” Cousin Billy was like a mirror image of his wife. He was tall and broadly built in jeans and a denim shearling jacket, and he seemed, even just standing there, to radiate a physical vitality. His cheeks were red from the cold wind that whipped over the school ground, but that only served to make him look even younger than his 50 or so years. John shook his cousin’s work gloved hand. “I guess it has.” John replied. Cousin Billy wore his black cowboy hat Indian style, flat brimmed, uncreased, and with a beadwork band. Steel grey eyes that belied his half-Navajo heritage glinted with a smile from beneath the brim. “Well, you didn’t come all the way out here just to shoot the breeze.” Billy said. “Step into my office and let’s find out what you need.” The inside of the stable was surprisingly warm from the kerosene heater that blazed away in the corner. Billy sat at a card table next to it and motioned for John to do the same. “Whatever it is, you’d better start at the beginning.” John finished his tale and sat back in the chair. “And you’re here so I can tell you what should do?” Cousin Billy asked. “Well, yeah, I guess.” John answered. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he had driven all the way out here, other than because his grandmother told him to. “Well, what do you want me to tell you to do?” His cousin asked again. “I want you to tell me to go lay low somewhere warm until this whole thing blows over.” John replied. Billy snorted. “No you don’t. You didn’t drive an hour out here because you wanted your cousin, the notorious troublemaker, to tell you to take the easy way out of this. You came out here because you’re scared. Scared and pissed off because this Jones guy was selling a bunch of crap and you bought it. You know what he was doing was wrong, and he used you to do it. You want me to push you in the direction you already know you should go.” John shrugged. “What am I supposed to do? There’s nothing I can do to stop this guy. He’s rich, he has all kind of friends in DC, and his own private army.” Billy smiled that mischievous smile again. “John, Jones is rich and white and dangerous, and you said he’s got plans for office. Do you think that’s gonna make him less dangerous, or more? And who’s going to suffer once he has the power he’s looking for? Not his rich politician friends or his country club buddies. The ordinary people are going to be the ones to feel it first and worst, as usual.” John had forgot that his cousin, ex-Green Beret bad ass that he was, was half a commie from all the bullshit he soaked in at this school. Although, in this case, he was right on the money. “But you’ve got the power to stop him, John. If you have that, and you do nothing, every dirty thing he does from here on out is on your hands, sure as if you were still there helping him. Fight it, John.” Damn it, John thought, he was right. He had come here looking for the push to get his head to go where his heart knew it should. “Yeah, okay.” He said, nodding gravely. “Doing the right thing is never easy.” Billy said. “If it was the world would be in much better shape than it is. I don’t have anybody I can call in Washington, despite what your grandmother might think. I burned those bridges long ago. Call Wilma’s boy and see what he can do for you.” “Yeah, sure. Okay.” John said. January 28th, 1985, Eisenhower Executive Office Building, Washington, DC Lieutenant Colonel Jody Choate’s desk intercom buzzed. “Boss, there’s a Mr. Riegert here to see you.” Bambi said over the speaker. Her sultry voice was just as sexy as the rest of her, Choate thought, not for the first time. “Send him in, please.” He replied. Lt. Barney Riegert was as disheveled as a person could be and still call himself a United States Marine. He had a raft of personal problems to go with his appearance as well, and would have been drummed out of the Marine Corps long ago if it weren’t for the Colonel’s intervention. Some men would have resented Choate’s using that leverage for his own advantage, but Barney had enthusiastically, and more importantly competently, thrown himself into his role as the Colonel’s personal mole at NSA. “Uh, hi Colonel, sir” Riegert stammered. “I’ve got something for you.” “Great!” Jody smiled. “Well, I didn’t expect to have anything for you so soon, you know? It normally takes forever for these things to bear any fruit at all and I’ve got nothing from Ramirez’s home or office or anything out of that place in Montana, but this came in this morning out of Ft. Wadsworth and it seemed just weird enough for you to be interested in so...” “Can we cut to the chase, Barney?” Choate asked. Riegert blushed, as he was aware of his tendency to run on. He wiped a greasy hand on his uniform trousers and handed a manila file to the Colonel. “That’s the transcript of a call into Fort Wadsworth from some podunk town in New Mexico. I think you’ll find it interesting.” Choate skimmed the file and dismissed the Lieutenant. “Bambi,” he said, pushing the button on his intercom. “Get me Ted Jones at his residence, please.”
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02-14-2019, 06:03 AM | #67 |
Crimson Guard
Join Date: Jun 2014
Location: Val Verde
Posts: 2,345
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After far too long of a hiatus two new chapters are up!
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