Group Writing: Operation MESA VANTAGE (Part 3: Stormfront)

 

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

 

Coker headed out of Nellis AFB and the greater Las Vegas metropolitan area, going north and hitting state road 95.  Eli noted that after about an hour of driving through high desert they moved through a town and military base called Indian Springs.  Not too long after, Coker pulled off the road and up to a rather robust, solid security check point.  He showed a couple of badges to the guard, who hit the badges with a little laser gun like unto what a super market cashier might use for an oversized item.  Coker merely said, “Coker plus four.” The guard scrutinized the little screen of his laser-gun-thing and waved them through the gate.

Half a mile in, Coker turned left, where immediately there was a small, very neat, very well put together range complex, backstopped by some hills that fell just short of being mountains.  Coker turned off the vehicle in front of a quonset hut and issued a “Rally in front of the van” order.

When everyone had unassed the van and was huddled up in front of the vehicle, Coker said, “Ladies, you are privileged to be at the National Test Site. This is where our country refined its ability to pop nukes on the enemies of baseball, apple pie, and mom.  We’ll be here for a little bit, and we’ll be shooting wherever we go.”  Coker made an arm gesture that encompassed the range complex. “You crazy kids will have free run over using these ranges, but you got to get the initial range brief and the “go’s” and “no-go’s” before we can start training.” Coker swept his arm toward the quonset hut, “So, if it’s not too much trouble, please file into the building in an orderly manner for your range in-brief.”

The four young men filed into the building, Coker entered last and pulled the door closed behind him. Behind a long counter in the front room, there was a uber-fit looking guy in a black polo shirt with a security company’s name emblazoned over his left pec.  He had on tan 5.11 pants, and, as he came around the counter, Eli saw that he was wearing tan desert combat boots.

“Gentlemen, I am Joseph Smith, I’ll be your security and range operations liaison while you’re here.”

“Mr. Smith?  Like Men in Black Mr. Smith?” asked Odell.

“Just like that.” said Smith, with no emotion.  “First, Mr. Ocker here will give you your initial orientation.”

A middle-aged man came out of the back.  He, too, was wearing tan pants, although these were more slacks, with no cargo pockets, he had a rust colored polo shirt on, with no legends or logos, and a bad comb over.  It didn’t look like an “I’m going to make the world think I still have hair” comb over, so much as a “well, you have to do something with it” comb over. 

The man held up a slim device that looked like a clipper that might be used to give an Army guy a haircut.  He held the device up against his throat. When he started speaking, the words came through the device, flat and robotic.  “Gentlemen. I. Am. Jerry. Ocker. This. Is. Your. Initial. Orientation. To. The. Nevada. Test. Site.” In his mechanical voice, Jerry told them about the rules of engagement on the facility; 360 degree range fan within the test site proper, all live fire events had to be cleared through Range Control (the building they were in), they had free use of the range complex just outside the building.  Jerry covered the emplacement and disposal of targetry, brass, and dunnage.  The small team was, to different extents, mesmerized and slightly horrified at the briefer’s bionic voice box.  At the conclusion of the brief, Jerry handed each man a small yellow badge that they must wear at all times and turn in when they left.  The badges were, they were told, radiac cards that would measure how much radiation they soaked up during the course of their stay.  Which was kind of terrifying.

Odell had hung his card over his neck and then drifted over to an oversized map taking up most of one wall.  The map showed the site in topographical format, and all the different ranges and facilities were grouped into areas.  The borders and interior of each area was clearly displayed on the map.

“Hey,” said Odell.  “You think we could swing on by here, kinda cruise through Area 51?  Maybe, I don’t know, do some jiu-jitsu with some aliens?”

“Sir,” said Mr. Smith, “ as briefed by Mr. Ocker, that area is strictly off limits.”

“I’m just sayin’ we swing by there, we might find some a’ Tiny’s relatives.”

“Sir, I’m sure you and your companions are all great Americans doing what you can to protect this country.  We here at the Nevada Test Site are proud of each and every one of you.  But if you travel into Area 51, we will kill you.”

“You know, I’m just sayin’ would be pretty cool—”

“If you travel into Area 51, we will kill you.”

Coker clapped Odell hard on the shoulder.  “Sounds pretty cut and dried to me. You got any questions, O?”

“Negative.  Nope.  I’m good.”

The five men clambered back into the van and departed Range Control.  Coker driving, they spent almost an hour driving over NTS’ lonely and often unpaved, corduroy roads.  Finally, the vehicle topped a small rise in the road.  Nestled into a small hollow was a compound of seven buildings of varying sizes.  They were military type corrugated metal covered in a spray-on insulation foam.  One or two of the buildings, that might have been workshops, were boxed shaped, with roll-up bay doors.  The buildings seemed randomly spaced, as dice thrown from a cup.  To one side, there was a line of five pickup trucks parked neatly on line, nose out and ready to go.

The men dismounted the van, and Coker said, “Welcome, ladies, to Oscar Base.  This’ll be home for the next two weeks or so, give or take.  I’ll give you the full tour, then we can start…uh…hey, it’s been a while since Ranger school.  What comes first, weapons maintenance, chow, or sleep?”

“Weapons.” The four young men said in desultory unison.  The question was, in the vernacular, rooty-poot.  

“Then?”

“Chow.”

“Then?”

“Sleep.”

“Well,” said Odell, with a sly grin, “except for Tiny.  With him it’s weap—sleep!—ons sleep! Maintain—sleep!—ance.”

Everyone laughed, even Tiny.

“You pretty funny,” said Tiny, slugging Odell’s shoulder and making him stagger three steps laterally.

“Yeah, I feel funny,” said Odell, rubbing his shoulder.

“You goan’ feel even funnier when I pop you like a zit.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Coker, snapping his fingers to get everyone’s attention. “No intra-team homicide unless approved by your supervisor, which in this case is me.  Such activities are not authorized at this time.  If I need to put combative training on the PT schedule, let me know.”

Making a “follow me” gesture, Coker walked up to one of the quonset huts, opened the door, and ushered them in.  The hut was large enough to accommodate at least a whole platoon, at least, the beds were bunks rather than singles.  Instead, there were four beds, spaced evenly along one wall, each with a wall locker next to it.  Folded linens, blankets and a pillow were placed neatly at the foot of each bed.  There was a name tag affixed to each wall locker, designating which troop would be occupying that area.

On the other wall, there were a series of long, deep wooden work stations.  Each had weapons laid out on them.  There was an M240 medium machine gun, an M4 carbine, and a Glock 21 laid out on each station.  The carbine and the pistol had associated magazines stacked neatly in front of them.  On a shelf above each station, there was neatly racked and stacked cleaning equipment and, on a peg board above the shelf, was hung a well-ordered assembly of accoutrements that comprised the SOPMOD kit.  The components of the Special Operations Modification kit allowed the operator to fine tune and tailor his weapon to the requirements of the mission at hand.  The peg board, Eli noted at his station, also held thermal and ambient light intensifying night optics for the 240, and a suppressor for the Glock.  In one corner of the workstation, there was a container holding boxes of batteries, both military and civilian, for the various optics.  Under each work station was a Tuff Box foot locker with a simple piece of tape across it that said, “kit.”  In front of each work station was a high stool, so that troops could either comfortably stand or sit while working on their arms.

“Okay, gentleman,” announced Coker, “you each have your own bunk and weapons stations.  There are two solvent tanks out back of this building to assist your weapons cleaning.  Keep the hoods down on the tanks unless they are in use to keep dust out of them.  At the far end on the right you’ll find the latrines.  Because I’m a giver, I procured a latrine with two showers, four sinks, four urinals, and four stalls.  You all figure out between yourselves whether you want to use them randomly, or assign them per man.  Be damned if I’m hanging name tags on poop stalls.  Across  from the latrines is a clothes washer and dryer, next to that is the maintenance closet.  You’ve got everything you need to keep this place looking tip top.  This right here is your barracks and war room, it don’t have to be IG’ed.  So you all figure out how clean to keep it.  But if I walk in and it looks like I got a bunch of dirt pigs living here, or if it smells like a bucket of smashed rectums, none of us are going to have any fun.  You because you’ll be cleaning, me because I’ll have to spend my precious time coming up with cleaning instructions detailed enough for knuckleheads to follow.  You cats pickin’ up what I’m putting down?”

Group, “Affirmative.”

“Great.  Out back there is a pump well, and clotheslines poles, just FYI.  You’ve got one hour to check out your weapons and kit.  Then I’ll collect you up and we’ll get chow and you can meet Mable.  Any questions?  No? Good—”

“Uh, Coker.”

Sigh.  “Yes, Odell?”

“Mable isn’t a part of your anatomy, is it?  I mean, you do you, but I ain’t—”

“Odell, I am more than sure that by the time you leave here, you will want to kiss Mable’s feet.  She’s a beautiful, elderly lady who is going to be feeding your sorry self during the course of this evolution.”

“Oh, whew.  Cool man.”

“And if you ever meet Moby, you gonna feel like you been violated by all of Cell Block D.  Copy?”

That got a laugh from everyone but Odell, and once again Tiny staggered him with a shoulder punch.

“Okay, ladies.  You’ve got one hour to check out your weapons and let me know if there are any issues.  I’ll collect ya’ll up for chow.”

All four young warriors sobered up.  “If there are any issues” implied that there might, in fact, be issues.  They all knew they were being assessed for…something.  Maybe finding a prearranged fault was part of the assessment.  All four men fell on their work stations and began checking the hardware as Coker sauntered out of the building in that lightfoot, Tasmanian devil gait of his.

Eli began slowly disassembling and inspecting every weapon and its component parts.  He took down each weapon system, and left all the guts splayed out on his station as he moved on to the next.  He started with the M240 on the left side of the station.  Then the M4.  Then the Glock.  He looked at each piece of each weapon has he took them apart.  Left to right.  When they were all cracked open he then inspected right to left, re-inspecting each component scrupulously.  He didn’t take the weapons down further than a standard disassembly.  First, the tools weren’t on hand to do so, and Eli was loathe, except in extremis, to use the Leatherman multi-tool that was on the peg board.  Use the right tool for the job.  If the right tool wasn’t present, don’t half-ass the job by forcing it with the wrong tool.

Eli’s work station was the first on the left as one entered the quonset hut.  He stood up straight to stretch out his back and glanced down the line at the other three troops.  He noted idly that each had chosen to perform their initial inspection standing, instead of using the high stools to sit.  Interesting.  Odell, in the work station right next to Eli’s was assiduously going over each weapon piece.  The guy who was always looking for the chance to crack a joke or bust on somebody was stone-cold serious, totally immersed in checking his weapons.  Good man.

Eli finished his weapons check, and re-assembled each piece of hardware, performing a functions check on each before he put it down.  Were there any issues with the guns, you’d need an electron microscope to find it.  He grabbed a bore punch and patch for each of the three calibers, oiled them, and rodded the barrel of each weapon.  For each of the three, the swab came away with the barest hint of carbon on it.  Clean and lubed and ready to rock and roll.

Eli turned his attention to the SOPMOD components on the pegboard.  Each was clean and serviceable.  All the sights worked once batteries were emplaced, and after checking each, Eli opened the battery compartment and turned the battery around, so that he had a battery with the sight, but wouldn’t inadvertently squeeze the juice out of it.

Eli pulled the Tuff Box from beneath the work table and opened it up.  Sure enough, an entire array of the belts, vests, bags, packs and carriers now common issue to all troops was in a series of vacuum sealed plastic bags within the box.  Eli began sorting and inventorying.  As there was no specific mission statement yet, he started setting up his personal kit in a generic way that was to his preference and would be easy to modify appropriately when he knew the mission.

The door swung open and Coker yelled, “Let’s go meet Mable and get some chow!”

***

Leo and the Amazon left the park and criss-crossed surface streets and cruised randomly until each was certain they hadn’t been followed.  Actually, Leo admitted to himself, it was pretty fun.  Finally, though, Amazon, in the lead at that particular time, made a hand gesture toward a big name chain steak house and pulled in.  They parked side-by-side, in the most unlit portion of the lot, walking their bikes backward to the curbside and dropping kickstands.

Leo held the door as Amazon went into the restaurant and followed her in.  Both of the two hostesses at the entry podium reluctantly (in Leo’s view) pulled up their masks.  The smaller, slighter hostess looked at the two bikers and said, “you have to wear a mask.”

Leo dropped his voice low enough to resemble a 55-gallon drum filled with broken glass being dragged across a gravel parking lot. “We have to wear masks when we sit at our table?”

“No, sir,” she said, suddenly wide eyed.

“Then why don’t you just get us to our table.  Then everyone’s happy.”

She nodded, grabbed a couple of menus, and signaled Leo and Amazon to follow.  When she got to the table at which she wanted to seat them, Leo pointed to an adjacent table, a little further to the interior of the restaurant.  “We take this one instead?”  The hostess nodded, and they sat.  The table Leo had chosen had a better view of the front door and the access to the kitchen.  They took their seats, the hostess handed them menus, and asked if they would like anything to drink to start off with.

Leo asked what they had on tap, and on getting the recital of a pretty robust selection, chose the Sam Adams lager.  Simple yet elegant.

“You got any different sizes?”

“Yes, sir.  For drafts we’ve got a 16 ounce and a 22 ounce.”

“Great.  Two 22 ounce Sammies, please.”

Amazon cocked an eyebrow at him.  “You presuming to order for me, Caveman?”

With no change of expression, Leo said, “And the lady will be having whatever she wants.” Amazon recovered quickly and placed her order and the hostess departed.

“This whole ‘Caveman’ and ‘Amazon’ schtick is really fun,” said Leo, “but I think it’s reached it’s sell-by date. I’m Leo.” He proffered his right hand over the table.

“Gabriela,” said Amazon, shaking his hand.

“So, Gabriela, who you working for?”

She gave him an excuse me? look.  

“I figure you’re an agent.  You were way too comfortable with that little shotgun of yours.  I don’t figure you’re FBI, it’s not that they wouldn’t put a chick on a motorcycle, it’s just that they wouldn’t think of it.  If you were DEA, you’d’ve just gone ahead and opened fire back at Myrtle’s.” Gabriela smiled at the blatant stereotypes Leo was throwing out.  “You don’t look like Border Patrol or ICE, so my money is on HSI.”  Leo figured Homeland Security Investigations was a good bet; they were the most closely aligned to have an interest in his contract, and though small, they did a lot of good work for Homeland Security.

“Nailed it in one,” Gabriela said, and then rolled her eyes at Leo’s grin.  “This is a unique, first-time-ever op.  HQ figured it couldn’t hurt to have somebody on the ground, monitoring.”

“Well,” said Leo, “actually it could hurt.  My first issue is OPSEC.  Number of people that are authorized to know about this is supposed to be small.  Especially given that the operation exploits corruption.  You guys talking about or reporting on your contractor could get your contractor killed.  Your contractor isn’t a big fan of that outcome.”

Gabriela shook her head.  “Not gonna happen.  This is about as tight as I’ve ever seen.  Outside of a couple beancounters that did the actual contracting, I’m one of four people that’re cognizant of what’s going on.”

“Ooh.  Cognizant.”

“You aren’t the only one that can use SAT words, big fella.”

“Noted.  Second issue is how you found me.  If you’ve got my bike tagged, it could cause real problems on down the road, again with the outcome of getting your favorite contractor killed.”

Gabriela shook her head again.  “Nothing’s tagged.  We tracked and located you based on the intel requirements you were sending up and the analyses you were asking for.  Once we worked out your general movement trace, we sent an algorithm up for the satellites to check and confirm your status.  The analysts that are working your intel are air gapped from the gang working your location, to keep anyone from putting two and two together.  But, somebody needs to be read on, to make sure everyone’s efforts are guided and generating relevant information and to keep anyone from wasting time diving down rabbit holes.  I’m that person.”

They stopped talking as the waitress dropped their water and beers, introduced herself, took their orders, collected their menus and left.  Leo grabbed his first beer and quaffed it.  He’d liked the word “quaff” ever since he’d started reading about the Middle Ages as a kid, and made an effort to quaff whenever he could.

Gabriela looked at him in wonder, maybe with a little disgust. “Thirsty much?” she asked, taking a dainty sip from her beer.

“Yes.”

“And you ordered the full rack of ribs and the T-bone steak?”

“Uh, I’m a growing boy?”

“Pshaw.  With what we’re paying you, you could probably be eating caviar.  Now, with everything you’ve sent up, we’ve got two areas for you to focus on, a primary and secondary.  Given the questions you’ve sent up, and a lot of the analysis you provided and the nature and direction of the requirements you pushed, we sort of looked at this whole operation from a different perspective.  Once we had that, a whole lot became obvious.”

“Yeah,” said Leo, “I work from a different set of initial assumptions.”

“On both the primary and the alternate, we’ve got more than enough probable cause to open investigations, get warrants and do a deep dive on the law enforcement organizations we’re looking at.  Might even be linkage up to a Federal level.” She shifted uncomfortably.  “Which validates your OPSEC concerns.  But like I said, this is being held pretty tight.  We’ll get a couple thousand man hours of investigations and multiple cases after this.”

“Great.  But you do understand that I’m not hired to generate investigations and casework, right?”

Gabriela looked uncomfortable again.  “The contract’s wording was appropriately vague and open to interpretation, but I think I’ve got the gist of it.”

“Gabriela—you go by Gabby?” She nodded. “You good if I use that?”  She nodded again.  “Okay, Gabby, look.  I’m glad you’ve got plenty of stuff to work on in the future, but if you’re the lead on this, we have to be absolutely clear.”

She said, “My supervisor provides oversight, but I’ve got the power of ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.”

Leo grinned at her.  “Okay, Ms. Yea-Nay-Nay, here’s the deal.  I was hired to send a very direct message to a very select group of people.  A very kinetic message.  There’s a significant—well, significant to me, anyway—chance that I might not make it out the other side of this thing.  ’S okay, ’s why I get paid the big bucks.  So you and your boss need to be absolutely okay with how this is going to go down.  Once we go operational, I cannot have people with cold feet second guessing me.”

Gabriela swallowed and nodded, “I understand.”

“And when I go operational, I don’t want you about.  I don’t even want you in the same state.”

“Because?”

“It’ll be a distraction.  You’re too pretty for me not to worry about.”

Gabriela floufed her hair and batted her eyes at Leo.  “You really think I’m pretty?” she said in a way that said she knew every heterosexual male everywhere thought she was pretty, and that she found that funny.

“Simply gorgeous, dahling.”

The waitress brought their food; a multiplicity of plates for Leo and a single large bowl holding Gabriela’s cob salad.  Gabriela looked at all of Leo’s food, her food, and sighed.  

“Let’s eat.”

***

The group piled into a building that had a small sign over the top of the door that stated they were entering “Mable’s Cafe.”  The interior was set up like a small military dining facility.  As soon as they entered, Eli’s mouth started watering.  He could smell some delicious vittles standing by.  Positioned by the small but still industrial looking cooking appliances was a short, sturdy lady wearing a blue smock dress under a white apron.

“Hello, Miz Mable!” hollered Coker.  “You certainly look lovely this evening.  I’d like to introduce you to these four fine lads.  This is Bobby, Eli, Odell and Tiny.  These are the hogs that will be feeding at your outstanding trough for the duration.  Gentlemen, this is Mable.”

All four greeted Mable.

“Good evening, gentleman.  As Coker said, I’ll be in charge of your messing while you’re here, and I can assure you it will be anything but a ‘trough,’” she sniffed toward Coker, who just gave her his maniac grin. “Breakfast and dinner will be A-rations in here.  I understand your training schedule is going to be rather fluid, so I’ll ensure that for lunch there’s enough leftovers from the previous dinner that you will have a good meal available if you’re in this cantonment area.  There will also be MREs for you guys to pack out, in case you don’t make it back for lunch.  This building will always be open, and there will always be an assortment of snacks left out for you.  On those evenings that you’re out late, Coker will coordinate with me and I’ll have midnight chow ready for you guys on your return.”

“Are you married?” asked Bobby, with a shy surfer-boy grin, “Because I think I’m in love.”

Mable smiled brightly at Bobby.  “I’ll tell you what, just look at me as your adoptive grandmother, who will spoil you rotten whenever Coker isn’t looking.”

“Works for me,” said Bobby.

“Now, gentlemen, I need to know if any of you have any religious or ethical dietary restrictions.  If so, it may take a day for me to configure your menu, but we do have kosher, halal and vegetarian MREs available for you until then.”

All four shook off on restrictions.

Odell, though, just had to pipe up. “What about cultural preferences?  I sure could go for some soul food.”

His three companions all either groaned and/or rolled their eyes.

Mable once again smiled brightly, and said, “Without any intent to commit cultural appropriation, I can knock soul food out of the park, young man. With, for this contract, the exception of chitlins.”

“No chitlins?” Odell feigned looking crestfallen.

“No chitlins, Odell.  I don’t have the time or the set up for that here. I don’t make chitlins unless I can clean them out myself.”

“Now, see,” proclaimed Odell, “this lady right here is legit.”

Odell reached out and dapped fists with Mable.

“Okay, gentlemen, the buffet line for this evening is right over there.  Serve your selves.  Just like home station, no eating in my chow line. Since there are only four of you, there are no tray carts, just leave your trays on the wash window whenever you’re finished.  Enjoy!”

***

Leo and Gabriela finished their meal and went their separate ways, with an agreement to meet at yet another local park the next morning.  Leo checked into a decent motel, jammed a wedge into the bottom of the door, and shucked his clothes.  He turned his leathers inside out and put them near the AC, showered and rolled into the rack.  He spent about half an hour reading, his current book was Baldesar Castiglione’s The Book of the Courtier.  Then he turned out the lights and meditated on sprezzatura for about 30 minutes.  Then he turned off his brain and slept like someone had hit him over the head with an ax handle.

***

The men all finished chowing, and Coker made a lazy ‘follow me’ gesture.  They moved to the building next to their work stations/barracks.  Coker entered first and gestured around the room.  “Gentlemen, this is your day room area.  The televisions all have full-up satellite subscription services.  Ya’ll figure out how to work the remotes.  You’ll see that each television has multiple gaming stations affiliated with it.  With you crazy kids being sons of the digital age, I didn’t want you going into full withdrawal when I took your tech.  However, no digits going into or out of this facility.  That means no multi-user domain games excepting if you decide to play against each other—which, I know Odell, isn’t the technical description of a MUD game.”

Eli looked around the room.  Asides from the big screen televisions, there was a pool table, a ping pong table a foozball table, and an air hockey set up.  There were bookshelves lining some of the walls, loaded with books.  Eli cast his eyes about the room and spied a big, glass-fronted refrigerator, that looked like it was stocked with all kind of beverages.  Next to that was a—what the—

“Coker,” asked Eli, “Is that a keg-o-rator?”

“Affirmative.  You guys feel free to drink as much or as little beer as you like.  Up to you.”  Coker paused for a moment and looked at each of them.  “Guys, this is big-boy-rules.  You need to be able to rock ’n roll from zero five until training is complete.  I’m not riding herd on you guys.  This isn’t Selection or the Q-Course, where everyone is telling you every minute of the day how many ways you can fail.  Full disclosure: you’re being evaluated by me and only me.  There is no “pass or fail.”  There is only “best for this mission or not best for this mission.”  That’s it.  No matter what happens, your home station chain of command will get a vague letter stating how you did great stuff and you’re a credit to your unit.  Okay?

“Now, wake yourselves up at zero-five tomorrow.  We’ll start PT at 0530.  Any questions? No? Good.  Released.”

Eli walked back over to the barracks building and started getting ready to rack out.  He had no idea what was coming in the morning, but he wanted to be ready for it.

***

Leo walked his bike back next to Gabriela’s softail.  The sun was just coming up, and while it was still New Mexico hot, the breeze actually hinted at something cool.  Leo espied Gabriela about fifty meters away, sitting at a picnic table.

He walked over and sat across from her.  She had a large tablet with her, and was flipping through imagery.

“Okay,” said Gabriela, “I’ve pulled up the primary and secondary target areas for you, based on the requirements you sent up.  We’ll walk through those.  If either doesn’t feel right to you, let me know and I’ll have my intel cell go back and generate more.”

“Let’s go through it, step-by-step, requirement by requirement,” said Leo.  “Also, remember how I said last night that I wanted you the heck out of Dodge once I kicked off the ball?”

She nodded.

“I’m going to caveat that.  I’m going to pull some heists, then I want you to go in and get the local LE all hot and bothered.  Let’s see if we can loosen up the situation by squeezing them from both ends.”

Gabriela nodded again, and then asked, “heists?”

Leo grinned.  “If you want me to get all doctrinally correct, how ‘bout ‘interdictions?’”

Gabriela considered a moment, then said, “I can do that.” She grimaced, then sighed.  “I’ll have to turn in the bike and the leathers for a Crown Vic and a pant suit, though.”

Leo squinted at her.  “Just out of curiosity, what would you rather wear, leathers or pant suit?”

“Why, Leo, I’d rather be wearing nothing at all.”

“C’mon, Gabby.  Keep your head in the game.”  Leo grinned at her.  “We’ll talk about getting you into your favorite attire later.”

They huddled over the tablet, and got down to brass tacks.

An hour and a half later, Leo stretched and said, “Okay, Pima Lamona county it is.  We’ve got confirmed Sinaloa, La Familia and Juarez cartel infrastructure, and some pretty strong indicators that at least part of the Sheriff’s Department is abetting.  

“So, I’ll go in, check things out and start stirring things up, ‘jack some shipments.  I’ll leave enough bread crumbs that the police and the cartels will know it’s a biker that’s jamming them up.  Then you show up and start the federal squeeze on the local law enforcement.  The idea here—the concept—is to get the cops leery of crossing lines under scrutiny, and the cartels angry enough to swarm.”

Gabriela asked, “Then what do you do?”

“Play it by ear, try to get them to swarm at a time and place of my choosing.  If it looks like isn’t working, I’ll back off and start over.

“My question for you is, can you pull off that fed ‘Iron Lady’ routine, and get taken seriously, hot as you are?”

Leo got a brilliant smile. “You think I’m hot?” asked Gabriela.

“Super, smokin’ hot.”

Gabriela placed a hand on the picnic table and vaulted over, landing on Leo’s lap.  Her legs were off to the open end of the table, and she began swinging them, cheerfully singing “He thinks I’m ho-ot!  He thinks I’m ho-ot!”

Leo tried, and failed, to look stern.  “You’re not exactly answering my question in the affirmative, here.”

Gabriela gently ran a hand down his face and beard. “Leo, not only am I hot, and smart, and sexy,” she said, dropping her voice and wrinkling her nose just a bit when she said sexy, making Leo crazy, “but no one can play the ice queen ball buster like I can.”

“Well, I’ll take your word for it, Amazon.”

She leaned up and kissed him softly on the lips, making Leo glad he hadn’t packed in any Copenhagen during their planning session.  

“Now,” she whispered, pulling back just enough so that Leo caught the slightest breeze with each word, “Let’s go back to your place.  I want to show you my upcoming spring line favorite outfit selection.”

***

Eli and the others were up and dressed for a workout when Coker came through the door.  All the men were stretching out or warming up.  Coker bade the men follow, and then walked back out the building.  “Keep loosening up while I run my suck for a minute.  Here’s how every day is going to go.  We’ll get up at zero five and do PT.  For the most part, your PT is up to you.  We might have a couple of team events, but that’ll be rare unless you guys think of something you all want to do.  My recommendation is don’t work too hard until you get acclimated and have a feel for what the daily workload is going to be.  We’ll have some night time training, too, but I’ll let you know a day out, so that you can plan accordingly.

“This is high desert, which means that it’ll be so cold at midnight, you won’t believe how hot it’ll be at noon, and at noon, it’ll be so hot you won’t believe how cold it’ll be at midnight.  But it’s still desert, so keep hydrating.  Every day, once we’re done with PT, we’ll gear up and head out.

“When we head out, have all your weapons on you all the time.  Keep them cleared and safed until you receive direction from me.  Today, we’re going to do PT, then go back to the security forces’ range and you guys will have all morning  to dope out your weapons, get zeroed, and learn to operate this particular range yourselves.  We’ve got full access and permissions to do whatever we want on their ranges, so don’t screw that up.

“By lunchtime, you should be dialed in on your weapons.  We’ll come back here for chow, then take an hour or so down time to avoid the worst of the heat.  After that, we go back out to the range, and I’ll run all y’all through a couple of tables on the M240.  Then we’re back here for dinner, you’ll get another hour of down time, then we go back to the range so that you can get your night optics wired tight.

“When we head to the range, you’ll each drive a vehicle,” Coker waved a hand toward the line of government pickup trucks lined up by their buildings.  “This is so that you can transport yourselves to the range on your own whenever you need to, and so that you can drive out to link up with me.

“Starting tomorrow, I’ll be pulling you off the range individually to execute solo range iterations.  I’ve got a shoot plan  that may come close to possibly looking something like mission requirements.

“Any questions?  No?  Good.  Here we go.  We going to run down the road at an individual pace.  Stay on the road until you get to an intersection with an orange cone on the near side with an orange flag sticking out of it.  That’ll be 1.5 miles out.  Then turn around and come back.” 

Coker walked over to the industrial roll up bay door and pulled it up.  Inside was a full-up fitness box.  “Whichever of you gets back here first—after me—can start working out here.  Do whatever you want.  Remember, save some juice until you get a feel for our battle rhythm.”

Coker rolled the bay door back down, shot the men a grin, and began an easy lope down the road.

***

Leo began his surveillance in Pima Lamona county.  It was there that Gabriela had determined that there was significant cartel infrastructure to collect, store and begin transportation for distribution through to the rest of the country.  Pima Lamona was a hub, much as airlines established for more efficient commerce.  Also, there were indicators that the county sheriff’s office, or at least some of its members, were in league with the cartels.  The corruption ran from just turning a blind eye to providing security and escorting.

The county sheriff’s officers were doing pretty good at hiding their ill-gotten gains.  Without warrants, Gabriela’s people couldn’t go spelunking around in their finances, but some of them boys couldn’t help buying very expensive optics for their hunting rifles, or lift kits for their trucks.  

Leo needed to find the intersection points of the cartel and the sheriffs.  Then he could start raising a ruckus.

***

The first day, Eli and the crew spent the day dialing in and getting a feel for their weapons.  First they zeroed the weapons to their iron sights, then they attached their optics and got them calibrated.

As articulated by Coker, they took a mid-day chow break and goofed off for a little while, then went back out on the range.  Their shooting lasted through the day, and when night fell, they brought their night optics on line.  Eli secured an AN/PEQ-2 IR aiming device to both his M4 and his M240.  The little plastic lozenge, slightly large than a deck of cards, could project an IR laser aiming dot, an IR floodlight, or a floodlight with an aiming dot centered in it.  Wearing his night vision monocular, Eli’s shooting with the M4 was like driving nails.  On the M240, an area weapon, it took a little more artistry to get the most out of the “Peck-2,” but Eli was comfortable with it.

With the IR spectrum piped through the monocular, Eli was freed up to put a thermal sight onto his light machine gun.  The thermal sight was a new model that Eli hadn’t worked with before, so he spent some time doping it out.  Thermal sights need their internal guts to cool down in order to operate; this little sweetie was about as quick as he’d seen.  The optic provided a picture that was about as crisp as he’d ever seen on a thermal.  Instead of the monochromatic shades of green provided by his light enhancing monocular, the thermal had hot and cold rendered in blacks and whites, with the ability to toggle from white-hot/black-cold to white-cold/black-hot.  Coker had anticipated the tune up of the thermal sights, and had placed heated electronic blankets on targets out to 500 meters.

The M240 Light Machine Gun has a maximum effective range of 1.1 km, when firing from a tripod and incorporating a traversing and elevation mechanism (T&E).  Max effective range is not the same as the maximum range.  The max effective range is the range at which a trained individual can be expected to hit his target 50% of the time.

The entire crew had noticed the lack of tripods and T&Es immediately upon initial inspection of their weapons.  Because the tripod and T&E let a trained gunner put out fires from an “area” weapon with an almost surgical precision, abjuring the use of the tripod and T&E when they were available was considered sort of…blasphemous.  When the lack of this equipment was brought up to Coker, he just shrugged and said, “Not a part of the mission profile.”

The concept of “maximum effective range” was an acknowledgment that no two weapons systems were the same, so planners, from squad leaders up to brigade operations officers, needed to make valid assumptions on what their various weapons systems could do in order to develop a tactically sound plan that exploited the best capabilities of all the weapons in the fight.  The M240 machine gun had a maximum range of well over three kilometers.  But once all the variables were considered, the max effective range was jacked all the way down to 1.1 km—and that was with a tripod and T&E.

In the modern age, the weapon itself was not the limiting factor on a direct fire weapon.  Instead, it was now the optics—how far does the optic let you see and how well integrated is the optic to the weapon, or the gunner himself.  The max effective range of the M240 firing from its organic bipod instead of the tripod was only 800 meters.  But, that planning factor was developed using the generic numbers for a “trained individual,” not for a highly trained SF weapons specialist.  Eli figured he and every other member of the crew could, on bipod fire, could reach out and put steel on target up to at least a kilometer out, with just the bipod.

Once everyone confirmed that their weapons, optics and night vision devices were good to go, they all packed up and convoyed back to Oscar Base.

The next two weeks seemed to race by.  Coker had some group events that they all participated in, but for the most part they stayed at the range complex.  Coker would take individuals out for a couple hours at a time and run them through singleton events while the rest of the men were left to their own devices on the range.

As a team, they developed some complex shooting scenarios that incorporated all of their weapons.  Then, being SF guys, they began setting up competition lanes, and with each day, those competition lanes became more intense and arduous.  

In front of each of the ranges, there were big, wall-less shacks on concrete stands on which there were picnic and work tables.  The guys used the shacks to break down the ammunition for their lanes, do a quick clean on their weapons as required, and just to get out of the sun and suck down fluids.  Once they started competing, they would post the rankings of their daily competitions in the central shack.  At first, they scored each other with points on target hits.  Soon, though, because each man’s marksmanship was so good, they began scoring by time, with any rare miss resulting in a five second penalty.  It didn’t take long before mere fractions of a second determined the difference between first place and fourth.

On their first Sunday at the test site, all four men declined the opportunity Coker offered to go to church, unanimously agreeing that their afternoon slack time would be enough for each to tend to his own spiritual needs.  Besides, Eli figured if they ended up at some church Coker picked out, there would be snake handling and speaking in tongues involved.  He could just see Coker thinking that would be hi-larious.

After slack time, Coker and Odell departed so that Coker could inflict one of his shooting conundrums on O.  The other three men headed to range complex to continue the competition range they had set up that morning.  Eli and Bobby safetied and scored Tiny through their current configuration.  

Tiny wrapped up the lane, with Bobby following as his assessor.  Eli had watched his performance through a spotting scope set up on the table in the shack.  He began shacking up the score sheet while the two re-cocked all the targetry and headed back.  His score and Bobby’s score were already posted on a white board tied off to one of the struts of the shack.

When Tiny and Bobby got back to the shack, Tiny immediately shed all his kit, dumped a bottle of water over his head, then began guzzling another.  Tiny’s physical conditioning was excellent, but bigger men have a harder time in high heat environments; their larger mass means they cannot shed the heat the body generates during physical events as quickly as they need to, and if they’re not careful, that heat will lay them out.

Coker drove up with Odell in trail as the competitors as Eli confirmed scores with Tiny and Bobby.  “Good run, Tiny,” pronounced Eli. “I got you with hits on all the targets, with a final run time of sixteen minutes and forty-seven seconds.”  Eli looked over at Bobby, “Concur?”

Bobby looked down at his wristwatch, which was in stopwatch mode.  “Concur.”

A flicker of disgust crossed Tiny’s face. “Naw, man.  I shagged a round on one of the pistol targets, had to re-engage.”

“The last one?” asked Bobby.

“Yeah.”

“Huh, I just figured you went for a Mozambique instead of just a controlled pair.  Pretty sure I saw a splash behind the target.”

“Naw, it was a straight up miss, man.  It was a near miss, but a miss.”

“Okay.” Eli started punching up the time vs. hits scoring calcs.  “O, you’re on the clock as of now.”

By mutual agreement, anyone coming off of one of Coker’s evolutions got twenty minutes to rest up and prep up.  They all figured that Coker’s determination who was going into the hills was random enough that it would just be considered an environmental factor.

Eli posted Tiny’s score on the white board.  The miss had hurt him.  Currently, Eli was in the lead, with Bobby a mere six tenths of a second behind him.  Tiny trailed four seconds behind Bobby.  He had to hope for Odell to score a miss also in order to avoid dead last.

Coker surveyed the range.  “Break it down for me.  What’ve we got, here?”

Bobby walked up beside Coker.  “First knock out 10 pull ups and 50 push ups right here.  Then engage the four targets on this range that’re between 800 and 400 meters with the machinegun.  Then these 10 targets between 100 to 250 meters with the M4.  Then, with all your weapons, cross the berm to the range to the left.”

Coker raised his eyebrows.  Bobby shrugged and said, “We cleared it with Mr. Smith.  Crossing the berm, there are seven targets on or against the berm, those are sidearm only targets.  Each of those get a controlled pair.  Then seven targets for the M4 arrayed from 100 to 350 meters out as you come off the berm.  Then you get to the final firing point, and address the last six targets with the M240, all between 400 and 800 meters. We carry just enough .45 and 5.56 so that you have one extra round, and enough 7.62 to put a 6 to 9 round burst on each 240 target.” 

“But,” said Tiny, walking up to them and taking another slug of water, “we load each other’s pistol and M4 mags randomly.  So you can’t ever plan when and where you’ll have to change magazines.  And, the 240 belts are broken down so that you’ll have to reload the gun at least four times.”

“Now that,” said Coker, “sounds like a good time.”

“Shee-oot,” proclaimed Odell, loading up magazines into his vest and putting belts of 240 ammo into his dump pouch, “maybe you want to give a try, Coker.  I mean, I know you’re a bit longer in the tooth than us kids, but maybe you can still keep up.”

Eli wished he had kept a loaded mag on him, so that he could put a round into Odell’s leg, just to shut him up.  He hadn’t, so the damage was done.  Surprisingly, though, Coker issued a deep belly laugh. 

“Ah, Odell.  I’d almost forgotten what it’s like to be so young and dumb.  Tell you what, you make your run, then I’ll kit up and show you how it’s done.  Deal?”

Odell grinned.  “Oh yeah.”

“Who’s pulling safety and scoring for O?” Eli acknowledged that he was, with Bobby on overwatch with the spotter’s scope. Coker nodded. “Tiny, would you mind uploading some mags and breaking off some belts for me?”

“You got it, boss.”

“Now, Odell, let’s put a little something on the table, just to make sure you’re invested in trying—and ultimately failing—for a win.”  Coker rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  “Let’s see, money’s no good here.  I already buy all the beer, and you guys can’t leave the site anyway.  What to do? What to do?”

Coker snapped his fingers as though he had just had a eureka moment.  “I got it.  For the next 72 hours, unless there’s a safety issue, the loser cannot speak unless spoken to.  That work?”

“Oh, it works,” said Odell.

“Then we’re on,” said Coker.

Tiny looked up from loading mags and winked at Eli.  Eli grinned and nodded back.  Sure, Coker’s one cocky dude, but anything that’ll get O to shut up for three whole days is worth rooting for.  

***

Ismael Salazar Guzman was the Sinaloa cartel distribution manager for introduction of product into the United States and then onward movement through Arizona, New Mexico, and western Texas.  He  had managed to not only survive, but to rise in the cartel ranks from foot soldier to distribution manager.  He had humble beginnings and a limited education.  While he might have had a lot of ignorance about a lot of academic subjects, his native cunning, original thinking, and absolute readiness to employ violence without hesitation or second thought had stood him well.  The executive board of the cartel, four years ago when he won his franchise, had sent him an executive assistant, Ovido Cintron Padillo.

Salazar and Cintron were a study in opposites.  Salazar was short, burly and knuckle-scarred.  He was usually unshaven and rarely had stains from less than two different foods on his shirt.  

Ovido Cintron Padillo, on the other hand, was urbane and educated.  He enjoyed every trapping of wealth that his employment offered.  The greatest attribute he shared with his boss was the fact that he didn’t hesitate to do or order violence, in either personal or professional environments.

The two made an odd couple, but over the past four years working together, they had built a strong rapport.  Shared danger, from both competitors and law enforcement had earned each to the other that most rare of criminal commodities, trust.

Salazar sat behind his desk, carefully peeling and slicing a mango.  He made a “want some?” gesture to Cintron, who as silently abjured.  Stuffing some mango into his maw, Salazar said around the fruit, “Cintron, I’m starting to get aggravated.”

“New Mexico, Jefe?”

“New Mexico.  We’re losing money, product and men at a rate that is going to start hurting, soon.”  A little mango juice ran out of his mouth and down his chin.  Cintron had long ago worked through aversions to watching his boss eat.  Mostly.

“What do you want me to do, Jefe?”

“Get up there, find the problem, fix the problem.  Make sure those pince cops are staying bought.  Make sure those bastards from La Familia aren’t pushing into our area; they’re always brushing up against us, sniffin’ around.  If it’s the gringo federales, no confrontations if you can help it.  You kill their federales, it’s a whole different proposition than killing some dirty local cops.”

“Got it, Jefe.  Find the problem, fix it if I can.  If I can’t fix it, find out what I need in order to do so and report back to you.”

“You listen good for a pretty boy.” Salazar leaned over to a bushel basket of mangos sitting on the floor next to his desk, grabbed two, and pushed them at Cintron.  “Here, take these.  They just came off my tree this morning.”

***

Sheriff Martin V. Pinkett threw the burner phone into his desk drawer, slammed the drawer shut, then leaned his bulk onto his elbows resting on his desk, scrubbing his face with his hands.  Cintron was on his way up.  That was bad.

Pinkett had overall, he thought, been a good sheriff and done his best to serve and protect the residents of Pima Lamona county.    That was a nice fantasy, he knew.  But he’d been sucked in, groomed like a chump, and participated in actions he could define in no other way but as corrupt.

Three years ago Pinkett had swaggered into Chrystal’s Diner, half a block from the station.  He’d sat at the bar, placed his Stetson on his knee, and ordered his usual breakfast (coffee, water, three eggs over hard, and home fries).

To his left at the bar sat a middle aged, blandly attractive Latina.  She was just finished up paying her tab, and slipped an envelope under his silverware/napkin set up.  

“This,” she said, “is for making sure that there are no patrols on County Road 154 tomorrow between noon and two.  You do that, after tomorrow you get the same amount.”  She patted him on the shoulder, and left.  Pinkett was slow on the uptake.  She had slid the envelope under his napkin just as his food arrived.  Pinkett had grabbed the envelope and opened it, confirming that it held a whole wad of cash.  When he counted it later, it was 15 grand.  He looked over at the door, but the Latina was gone.  This started Pinkett on a slow boil.

They just hand me an envelope?  They just assume I’ll comply?  All his 270-pound, former college offensive lineman bulk tensed up.  It was a fearsome sight that seemed to radiate out from Pinkett, drawing looks from the other diners at their sheriff.  Alright, I got something for them, then.

The next day, he had—in as low-viz means possible—flooded the zone on CR 154.  He’d called in the Staties for support.  He’d turned in the full amount of the cash.  He’d even had a DEA stringer show up.

Over the course of the two-hour window in which he was supposed to leave the county road unpatrolled, they’d identified an 18-wheeler that was definitely out of place.  The legend on the side of the trailer proclaimed Mateo’s Happy Meats!  Immediate and fevered radio calls and computer checks had found no company with that name, and no local retail stores or wholesale meat markets that used this particular supplier, and no reason whatsoever for that kind of rig to be on that county road.

The truck was pulled over, and searched.  Asides from a bunch of beeves, skinned out and hung up in the reefer controlled trailer, they found drugs.  Lots of drugs.  Pinkett and the Staties and the DEA stringer were ecstatic.  This was sorta/kinda the motherlode.  Coke, heroin, fentanyl and opioids and opiates were stacked in false walls inside the trailer.  

Pinkett got all kinds of good press, which pretty much assured that he was a shoo-in for the next election.  The press were fed and dutifully extolled all kinds of buzz words.  Interagency, municipal-state-federal cooperation and synergy, exhaustive vigilance and analysis.  Sheriff Pinkett was flying high.

A week later, Pinkett came sauntering out of Chrystal’s diner.  He had a toothpick tucked into the side of his mouth and was looking forward to the day.  He almost collided with a lady with her head down, digging into her purse.  “Ho, whoa! Sorry about that ma’am.”

The lady looked up from her purse, and Pinkett immediately recognized the middle-aged lady that had shoved the envelope at him a week ago.  Before he could react, her hand came out of her purse holding a cell phone and dropped it into one of the outer pockets of his sheepskin jacket.  She said, “You poor man.  Get to your office” and then slid by him.  He statued-up a second, and then turned to follow the Latina.  He saw her climbing into the rear seat of an F-250 super cab.  Three men stood around the vehicle, all with hard eyes and open coats.  Strangely, none looked latin.  One looked maybe Asian.  Pinkett’s hand dropped to his service belt, and in immediate synchronicity all threes’ hands dropped to belt lines or inside coats.  The maybe-asian guy said, “Like the lady said, best for everybody if you get to your office.”

Pinkett spent seconds breathing in and out great gouts of air.  Every muscle in his body, every spritz in his hormonal system, every latent layer of anger in his mind told him to draw on these thugs and get to it.  After a couple seconds of his gasp breathing, though, every bit of his reason told him this was a fight he could in no ways win.  He had a wife.  He had kids.  He had responsibility.  With an effort of will, he took his hand off the butt of his service pistol.  He turned and stalked, his football knees combined with his anger to make his gait even more straight-legged than usual, toward his office.

When he got to the department building he—unusually for the affable Sheriff—traveled through the front offices straight to his office.  When he unlocked the door and entered, there was a drop-cloth slung over his desk.  Pinkett whisked the cloth away and stared at the top off his desk.

There was a stack of high-definition 8x11surveillance photos.  The first nine were three each of his wife and two daughters.  The other were photos of a couple feds, Staties, and even members of his own department in what could, maybe, be construed as meets with personnel that might, and then again might not, be members of a cartel.  The message was obvious.  We’ve got eyes on your family, and you don’t know who you can trust.

Next to the stack of photos was a sharp but obviously hard-used machete.  Next to that was another buff envelope.  It held 15K.  Pinkett went back to the photos of his family.  The various photos showed them at home, at school, and at church.  The not-so-subtle threat was apparent.  Pinkett felt his wind go out, and fell into his chair.

Back in the present, Pinkett scrubbed his face again, thinking about Cintron showing up, and wondered could this day get any worse?  There was a quick knock on his door, and his number two, MacPea, stuck his head in.

“Hey, boss.  Feds’re here.  They want to talk to you.

Of course they are.  Of course they do.

***

Bobby hit the stop on his wristwatch and said, “Well. That just happened.”

Eli lifted his eye off the spotter scope.  “You guys just saw what I saw, right?”

Odell piped up with, “All I know is I’ma goin’ church soon as we get outta here, and pray hard I get the same angels sittin’ on my shoulder as sit on Coker’s.”

Eli looked out on the range.  Tiny had been running safety on Coker, and they were both walking it back in.  Tiny had a huge smile plastered on his face.  Eli understood the grin; he was happy to have just been there to see Coker’s run, too.

Bobby said, “Dude, we were fighting it out for seconds.  Sometime tenths of a second.  Coker just beat our best score by six minutes.  Six. Minutes.”

As Tiny and Coker made it up to the shack, Odell asked, “So, Coker, we really suck that bad?”

Tiny held up a silencing forefinger to Odell, then he took a moment to doff his armor.  “Shhh, O, you can’t speak unless spoken to.” Odell gave a silent curse while Tiny, big ol’ grin still in place, turned to Coker and said, “So, Coker, we really suck that bad?”

Coker was pouring a bottle of water over his head.  He shook out his hair and sputtered out some water.  Then he cracked another water and started slugging it down.

“Nah, you guys don’t suck—well, except maybe for Odell.”  Odell started to bow up and took a prepatory inhale.  Coker put a finger across his own lips. “Shhh.  I was talking about you, not to you.”

Odell deflated, and Coker wiped back a handful of raggedy hair that had been soaked with sweat, and was now soaked with rinse water, and he spit.  “Look, you crazy kids don’t suck.  You just ain’t been doing this as long as I have.  Now, our now silent brother Odell—by the way, ya’ll are welcome—made the comment that I’m a little bit long in the tooth.  Maybe.  But they’re still plenty sharp teeth.  I figure I got six, maybe seven years in front of me before I need reassess what I’m doing with my life.  Depends mostly on injuries.  In the mean time, let’s talk about what happened.  Kit up.”

All four troops donned their armor and helmets, strapped on their weapons, put in/on their ear and eye pro, and then each gave Coker a thumbs up.

“Okay.  Let’s go,” said Coker.  Then he started doing what Non-Commissioned Officers do.  He started training the troops.

***

Sheriff Pinkett rose from behind his desk as two feds entered his office.  The first through his door was a statuesque brunette with short, dark, curly hair.  She looked more Mediterranean than Latin, and was wearing a dark Navy pantsuit, over a white blouse that had some kind of frilly stuff down the front button line.  The man who came in behind her was lean and blond, about as whitebread as you could get.

“Good morning, Sheriff.  I’m Special Agent Gabriela Aragon.  This is Supervisory Special Agent Dan Harper.  We’re from DHS ICE/HSI.”

Pinkett noted that it was the junior who had introduced her senior, unsure of what that meant, but that hadn’t happened whenever he’d met with feds before.  He shook Aragon’s hand first, as she was closest, then Harper’s.  He noticed that Harper’s hand had a big school ring on it, looked like an Academy ring.  West Point.  Great, thought Pinkett, one of those.

“Well,” said Pinkett, gesturing for the agents to sit at the two seats positioned in front of his desk and navigated back behind it to sit down, “why would small, humble Pima Lamona county host such an august pair of federal agents?”

Neither of the agents reacted, positive or negative, to his comment.  Aragon looked to her boss, who gave her a nod.

“We’ve noticed a significant uptick in cartel-related incidences in your county, Sheriff.  Over the last three weeks, this county has seen what looks like six hijackings of cartel product headed north.  Four hijackings of cash headed south.  And there was one case of interdicted human trafficking cargo.  All of the incidents involved fatalities of, what looks to us, the personnel moving the cargo, whichever it was.  The personnel associated with the human trafficking were killed in a…particularly brutal fashion.  We wanted to ask, do you have a current theory of the uptick in violence in your county?  Or is do you assess this to be a statistical anomaly?”

Pinkett picked up a little gel stress ball from his desk, and started squeezing it as he leaned back in his chair.

“Who knows?” he said.  “We’re run ragged just trying to keep our fingers in the holes in the dike, here.  We’ve for sure noticed the incidents—county coroner hasn’t had this much work in years, even though all the corpses had pretty obvious causes of death.  If you’ve been doing your own analysis, it might help us here if you shared it with us.”

“Oh. We definitely will, Sheriff.  You’ve historically done good work down here, with an impressive number of arrests and seizures over the last couple of years.”

Pinkett nodded somberly, as if to say just part of the job, little lady.

The HSI lady continued, “but what our analytical teams have noticed, is that the smugglers and gunsels you’ve rolled up have been, exclusively, the La Familia and Juárez cartels.  These recent hits look to be, without exception, Sinaloa.  Any thoughts on that, Sheriff?”

Pinkett showed no real outward reaction, but the bottom fell out of his stomach.  Part of facilitating Sinaloa had been, when provided cartel intelligence, interdicting other cartels encroaching on Sinaloa territory.  It had made him and his office look like fine, upstanding examples of dedicated law enforcement.

“I have no idea,” said Pinkett.  Squeeze.  “Maybe we’ve got a turf war going on.”  Squeeze.  “Maybe somebody ripped someone else off, say down in Mexico, and we’re seeing the payback.” Squeeze.

“You’re probably right, Sheriff,” said Special Agent Aragon.  “We just stopped by to let you know we’re going to surge some analytical support toward whatever is causing this violence, to include some threat finance gurus.  These guys have got to be leaving a digital footprint on top of their bulk cash.  Also, we’re going to push some of our forensics folks down here, help you out with processing crime scenes—if the trend continues—and maybe take some of the burden off your coroner.  We want you to know, Sheriff, you’re not in this alone.”

Aragon and Harper stood, and offered their hands to Pinkett, and then headed for the door.  Harper led out, followed by Aragon.  Aragon paused, her and on the doorknob.

“Sheriff, have you seen any warnings or indicators that bikers could be involved?”

“Bikers?”

“We’ve heard some chatter.  Nothing definitive, but we feel there could be a motorcycle club component to these numbers.”

The Sheriff leaned back in his chair, and looked at the ceiling.  He pursed his lips in thought.  Squeeze.

“I doubt it, Special Agent.  We’re kind of just a thruway, for cartels and for bikers.  

“The bikers play ball with the cartels and make decent bank.  They interfere with the cartels and they get way more trouble than they want to chew on.”

“Hmm,” said Aragon, poker faced. “Lotta that going around.  Have a nice day, Sheriff.”

***

Gabby drove the Crown Vic out of the Sheriff’s parking lot.  

Harper, sitting shotgun, asked her, “So, what’d you think?”

“I think, if I ever start working for a cartel, I won’t keep a damn stress ball on my desk.  Maybe the biggest tell I’ve ever seen—and from another cop!”

Harper said, “He probably needed to start squeezing down on that ball to keep from losing sphincter control.  I think that he could see his whole life becoming unspun during our interview.  Well, our contractor, asset BRICKHOUSE, wanted us to squeeze from the top.  I think we’re there, squeeze-wise.”

“Yeah, so the cops are frantic, the cartels are angry, and BRICKHOUSE is going to just fan those flames?  I mean, have you seen how many critical points of failure this op has, for us as well as well as BRICKHOUSE?  Sorry, boss, this seems kind of insane, all the way ‘round.”

Harper blew out some air, puffing his cheeks.  He breathed a couple times and said, “Gabby, have you ever known me to be rash, operationally intemperate, or super-duper optimistic?”

Gabby snorted.  Harper was assiduous in his supervisory status.  His whole crew had learned that if they wanted to successfully pitch an op to him, they had to start with The Constitution, maneuver through Title 18 authorities, then through the post-911 legislation that established the Department of Homeland Security, then start talking about the op, being able to defend its congruence with the statutory and regulatory guidance.  Harper also backed up every one of his agents, if they’d done the mental and legalistic gymnastics to earn a “go” for an op.

“No, sir, I’ve seen none of that.”

“Okay,” said Harper. “Now, I know that some of the crew within our division think I’m risk averse—Oh, don’t look at me like that.  We both know it’s true.  What’s your assessment?”

Gabby thought for a moment, then parsed her words carefully, “Dan, you’re definitely not risk averse.  I’ve been on the kinetic end of too many ops with you right there next to me.  So, not risk averse, but maybe a…stickler?”

“ ‘Sticker,’ I like that.  Now, Special Agent Aragon, why am I such a stickler?  Such a bureaucratic pain in your tuchus?  Such a painstaking task master?

“Well,” said Gabby thoughtfully, “if we’ve always got all our ducks in a row, then we’ve got nothing to worry about when we get pronged by the IG.  Or the New York Times.  Or some Congressional oversight committee.  That’s what I’d always figured all the stickler-ness was about, anyways.”

“Valid,” said Dan, “and make no mistake, that’s a component of my anal retentiveness.”

Gabby laughed and swerved the car a little bit until she got her mirth under control.

“Oh, c’mon,” said Harper, “you think I don’t know that you all say that I turn coal into diamonds through butt cheeks alone?  Sure, I know my rep, and I’m more than happy to own it.

“But, Gabby, above and beyond the IG, and Congressional oversight, and being savaged by the media, you know why I make such an effort to ensure each and every special agent in the division knows exactly what they’re doing, why, and where the authority comes from to do so?”

Gabby, the Amazon, started wishing she hadn’t changed out her Soft Tail Bob for the Crown Vic.

“Dunno, Boss, but I feel like you’re about to tell me.”

“You’re right, Agent.  Let me put you some knowledge, here.  With the system we got, what could you do to the average Joe if you didn’t like the way he answered your questions?  What could you do to somebody that you were sure was guilty of serious crimes, but with no crimes associated with your investigation?  How much power do you have, Agent?”  

“Okay,” said Gabriela, “I get it.  But that’s nothing that all of us don’t already know.”

“Sure,” said Harper, “You know it, but can you articulate it?  Can you start with the Constitution and cross-walk all the way up to your actions on the objective, with a cold-fish IG investigator or a hostile Congressional committee?”

“Well…I can now,” said Gabriela.  “So, you’re not just a nit-picker for nit-picking sake.”  She thought a moment, “Your actually training us to be able to defend ourselves later on, as we move up the chain and become managers and supervisors.”

“Bingo.  Got it in one, my fearsome Gabriela.”

Gabby’s head was awhirl.  She knew Harper never had a conversation without a reason, or an agenda, or an endpoint.  This was more than just a “professional development” conversation.  And…

“So,” said Gabby quietly, “this applies to contract asset BRICKHOUSE how, exactly?”

“Well,” said Harper, “we’ve an election coming up, you may have noticed.  Whatever the results, whomever the winner, the fallout will be a guaranteed fecal matter hurricane.  Whatever the final outcome, I can tell you the cartels will see our profound confusion and social sorting as an opportunity.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, maybe it would be efficacious to the country at large and law enforcement in particular, to send a very sternly worded letter to the cartels, telling them that taking advantage of our political turbulence would be a bad idea.”

“Yeeeeeah,” said Gabby softly, “and you think BRICKHOUSE is the guy that can send that kind of message?”

“I do.”

“Boss, we got one guy, on contract, and know that the cartel—oh, hell, we both know it’s Sinaloa—is going to throw everything they can at the guy.  If he gets his beef jerked by these thugs, doesn’t it send the opposite message?”

“I read your SITREP,” said Harper.  “When you busted into Myrtles and ’saved’ him from those Bandidos, did he look like he needed saving?”

“No,” said Gabriela.  “He looked like he was actually enjoying himself.”

“Exactly.  And for this mission, he’s got some government support.  And I’m pretty sure who that support is.

“Look, anything can go hard wrong.  But I don’t think this’ll go wrong.  Have faith, young Special Agent.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

Eli was pouring fire, in measured six-to-nine-round bursts, at the targets arrayed in front of him.  Generally, they were 600 to 900 meters out.  Coker, sitting a couple of meters to his left, was ordering pop-up targets to raise and lower with the tablet on his lap.

The earbuds in his ears had active noise enhancement and active noise defeat, so soft sounds were amplified and loud sounds, like the machine-gun from which he was issuing fire, were tamped down.  The earbuds was also linked to the mission phone strapped to the inside of his left forearm.  Just as two targets popped up in front of him, at/about 400 and 600 meters respectively, Eli got a chime and the warning, from a voice that sounded just like Siri’s, “threat to the rear.”

Eli released the machine-gun and, rotating onto his buttocks, pulled up his carbine.  There were four targets, arrayed from 50 to 200 meters out.  Eli serviced all four targets with controlled pairs, trying to make sure that he didn’t shoot his own foot or feet while doing so, dropped the carbine, rolled back to his belly and addressed the two targets out in front of him.  Just as the gun ran dry, he heard Coker shout, “Time!  Ceasefire!  Eli raised the feed tray on the gun, ensured it was clear, then cleared and safed his carbine.  He rolled to his back, and gasped up at the sky.

Eli felt a plastic water bottle land on his chest plate.  He grabbed it, unscrewed the cap with a flick of his thumb, and just dumped half the water into his face before he even sat up.

Eli said, “Hey, Coker, can I just shoot myself and get this all over with?”

Coker grinned his maniac grin and said, “Nah, brother.  Don’t worry about it.  If you need to be euthanized, I’ll do it.”

***

Eli, Tiny, Bobby, and Odell recovered their personal effects back in the empty building in which they’d stashed them at Nellis.  They each had travel orders for flights back to home station.  Odell back to Fort Campbell, Kentucky.  Eli back to Bragg.  Bobby and Tiny shared a flight back to Fort Lewis, Washington, then Tiny would hop a flight back to Okie.

The guys were now tight.  Coker had admonished them with threats of doom and destruction should they ever talk about their time at the National Test Site.  The guys all smoked and joked and said goodbyes with big bro-hugs.  Then each headed to his separate departure ramp.

Eli had just settled back in the nylon netting that comprised his seat, eyes closed and the Grateful Dead running through his head (what a long, strange trip it’s been) when a perky little blond crew member in a flight suit that had obviously been tailored shook his shoulder.  Eli looked up.

“You Staff Sergeant Hanson?” Eli nodded in the affirmative.  “You’ve been bumped.  Report to the tower for flight reassignment.”

“Roger that,” said Eli and walked off the ramp and into the sunshine.  As he followed the pedestrian lines on the pad, he looked toward the tower.  Under it, Coker, long and languid, was leaning up against a pickup truck.  As he approached, Coker grinned at him.

“You thought things were weird up til now?  C’mon, little brother, you’re about to step through the looking glass.”

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  1. Arahant Member
    Arahant
    @Arahant

    I’m lovin’ it.

    • #1
  2. Midwest Southerner Coolidge
    Midwest Southerner
    @MidwestSoutherner

    Awesome. Great job with the character development.

    When’s part 4 dropping? (Answer: not soon enough.)

    • #2
  3. Clavius Thatcher
    Clavius
    @Clavius

    Keep them coming Boss!

    • #3
  4. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    It took me a while. I got to it late and knocked off halfway through for some sleep, plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    It is shaping up nicely, Boss.

    • #4
  5. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    Midwest Southerner (View Comment):
    When’s part 4 dropping? (Answer: not soon enough too soon)

    FIFY.

    ‘Cause I’m a giver, I swapped out with @kirkianwanderer, so I’ve got to rip out the final installment today.

     

    • #5
  6. KirkianWanderer Inactive
    KirkianWanderer
    @KirkianWanderer

    Boss Mongo (View Comment):

    Midwest Southerner (View Comment):
    When’s part 4 dropping? (Answer: not soon enough too soon)

    FIFY.

    ‘Cause I’m a giver, I swapped out with @kirkianwanderer, so I’ve got to rip out the final installment today.

    Boss is truly a 仁慈的戰神. His kindness allowed me to be able to pick up the impossible to find advanced Russian textbook for my fluency class, so I’m not murdered by my teacher.

    • #6
  7. Midwest Southerner Coolidge
    Midwest Southerner
    @MidwestSoutherner

    Boss Mongo (View Comment):

    Midwest Southerner (View Comment):
    When’s part 4 dropping? (Answer: not soon enough too soon)

    FIFY.

    ‘Cause I’m a giver, I swapped out with @kirkianwanderer, so I’ve got to rip out the final installment today.

    Day. Made. :)

    • #7
  8. Quietpi Member
    Quietpi
    @Quietpi

    KirkianWanderer (View Comment):

    Boss Mongo (View Comment):

    Midwest Southerner (View Comment):
    When’s part 4 dropping? (Answer: not soon enough too soon)

    FIFY.

    ‘Cause I’m a giver, I swapped out with @kirkianwanderer, so I’ve got to rip out the final installment today.

    Boss is truly a 仁慈的戰神. His kindness allowed me to be able to pick up the impossible to find advanced Russian textbook for my fluency class, so I’m not murdered by my teacher.

    Ever the gentleman.  The rest of us will have to learn . . . and suffer . . . graciously . . .

    This is hard.

    • #8
  9. OmegaPaladin Moderator
    OmegaPaladin
    @OmegaPaladin

    Damn fine work, Boss.

    Leo comes off as a down-to-Earth, tactical James Bond.

    You really pulled the switch on me – I was expecting the crew to be working as a unit.   Four SF weapon specialists would have me worried even if I was in a modern tank or fortified concrete bunker.

    It’s interesting to see the selection process was almost like a vacation.  I’m guessing at that level your don’t people to ride you to deliver excellence.

    • #9
  10. Arahant Member
    Arahant
    @Arahant

    Percival (View Comment):
    plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest (center of mass), one to the head.

    • #10
  11. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    Arahant (View Comment):

    Percival (View Comment):
    plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest (center of mass), one to the head.

    I said that I had to research …

    • #11
  12. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    OmegaPaladin (View Comment):
    It’s interesting to see the selection process was almost like a vacation. I’m guessing at that level your don’t people to ride you to deliver excellence.

    Omega, that’s why I put in the competition piece–which, by the way, is how it plays out, always.  When you’re part of a group in which every person is trying to be better than he is, and maybe even the best of the group, then then the pressure is intense to not be “that guy” that’s at the bottom of the list and a drag on everyone else.

    • #12
  13. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    Arahant (View Comment):

    Percival (View Comment):
    plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest (center of mass), one to the head.

    The ditty, as we trained it, was press-press-pause-press.

    • #13
  14. Arahant Member
    Arahant
    @Arahant

    Percival (View Comment):

    Arahant (View Comment):

    Percival (View Comment):
    plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest (center of mass), one to the head.

    I said that I had to research …

    Yes, but did you share that research with the class? No, you did not. And I thought, we might have some other innocents like you wandering around Ricochet, so somebody should make it easy for them, rather than their having to attempt to find the information on their own.

    • #14
  15. PHCheese Inactive
    PHCheese
    @PHCheese

    Eli’s coming you better hide

    Eli’s coming you better walk.

    • #15
  16. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    PHCheese (View Comment):
    Eli’s coming you better walk.

    You can run, but you’ll only die tired.

    • #16
  17. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    Arahant (View Comment):

    Percival (View Comment):

    Arahant (View Comment):

    Percival (View Comment):
    plus I had to research what “going for a Mozambique” meant.

    Mozambique Drill: Two to the chest (center of mass), one to the head.

    I said that I had to research …

    Yes, but did you share that research with the class? No, you did not. And I thought, we might have some other innocents like you wandering around Ricochet, so somebody should make it easy for them, rather than their having to attempt to find the information on their own.

    I am but a timid daisy.

    • #17
  18. Arahant Member
    Arahant
    @Arahant

    Percival (View Comment):
    I am but a timid daisy.

    True.

    • #18
  19. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    KirkianWanderer (View Comment):
    Boss is truly a 仁慈的戰神.

    Hey, c’mon.  I never even looked at another guy.

    • #19
  20. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    PHCheese (View Comment):

    Eli’s coming you better hide

    Eli’s coming you better walk.

     

    • #20
  21. PHCheese Inactive
    PHCheese
    @PHCheese

    Percival (View Comment):

    PHCheese (View Comment):

    Eli’s coming you better hide

    Eli’s coming you better walk.

     

    Thanks, I couldn’t remember all the words.

    • #21
  22. Hank Rhody, Freelance Philosopher Contributor
    Hank Rhody, Freelance Philosopher
    @HankRhody

    I’m told that in Mozambique they refer to it as killing someone American style.

    • #22
  23. Percival Thatcher
    Percival
    @Percival

    Hank Rhody, Freelance Philosop… (View Comment):

    I’m told that in Mozambique they refer to it as killing someone American style.

    There is “cowboying.” It doesn’t matter how many times you shoot them, as long as it is somehwhere between “a lot” and “too many.”

    • #23
  24. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    Hank Rhody, Freelance Philosop… (View Comment):

    I’m told that in Mozambique they refer to it as killing someone American style.

    I’ve heard the same.

    • #24
  25. Judge Mental Member
    Judge Mental
    @JudgeMental

    Only one quibble, Boss.  Shouldn’t code name BRICKHOUSE be reserved for Gabby?

    • #25
  26. Boss Mongo Member
    Boss Mongo
    @BossMongo

    Judge Mental (View Comment):

    Only one quibble, Boss. Shouldn’t code name BRICKHOUSE be reserved for Gabby?

    Point.

    • #26
  27. Clifford A. Brown Member
    Clifford A. Brown
    @CliffordBrown

    This conversation is part of our Group Writing Series under the October 2020 Group Writing Theme: “It was a dark and stormy night… .” Stop by soon, our schedule and sign-up sheet awaits.

    Interested in Group Writing topics that came before? See the handy compendium of monthly themes. Check out links in the Group Writing Group. You can also join the group to get a notification when a new monthly theme is posted.

    • #27
  28. JimGoneWild Coolidge
    JimGoneWild
    @JimGoneWild

    I’m picking up what you’re laying down. Pure Awesomeness.

     

    • #28
  29. Clifford A. Brown Member
    Clifford A. Brown
    @CliffordBrown

    Stay tuned.

    This conversation is part of our Group Writing Series under the October 2020 Group Writing Theme: “It was a dark and stormy night… .” Stop by soon, our schedule and sign-up sheet awaits.

    Interested in Group Writing topics that came before? See the handy compendium of monthly themes. Check out links in the Group Writing Group. You can also join the group to get a notification when a new monthly theme is posted.

    • #29
  30. dajoho Member
    dajoho
    @dajoho

    Write book already will ya?  

    You killin’ me – Straight Outta da’ Team room

    He noticed that Harper’s hand had a big school ring on it, looked like an Academy ring.West Point.Great, thought Pinkett, one of those.

    HA!

    Whatever the results, whomever the winner, the fallout will be a guaranteed fecal matter hurricane.

    I’ve been in a few of those.  Caca squall, dookie typhoon, and the ever popular stool tempest……

    Like that kid Eli….

    And yes Ricochet I am late on the uptake…………

     

    • #30
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