Ghost / Writer #2

Cort's mind was not on his work. That was unfortunate, because - just at the moment - his work demanded attention. There were periods where Cort's work could easily accommodate other trains of thought simultaneous to it's performance, but this was not one of those times. He wasn't exactly sure of how much danger he was in, but was reasonably certain he was at considerable personal risk, for the simple fact he was about to break into a very expensive house and kill whoever he found inside it. Even so, having breached a deserted outer security wall and traversed fifty yards of gaudy, New England hardscaping, Cort found himself leaving the mission solely to his instincts and thinking - instead - about the end of a story. More specifically, the optimal incarnation of the end of a story he'd written. He'd given Richards too much reality this time. Publishing as planned would bring a deluge of questions with uncomfortable answers. Worse, he hadn't found the time bring it up with Richards.

"Fuck it" he thought, trying to claw his way out of his own head and back to the present. Newport, and the book were for tomorrow. Over the next three days he'd sit with Rich and bring the thing home. The problem was the intervening 24 hours, and how best to spend them without dying and shit-fucking the whole thing.

He was close to the house now. 50 feet or less. He smelled cooking inside, cigarette smoke. Other kinds of smoke. He couldn't stop thinking about the fucking story. What had he been thinking?! What had he done?!

He circled the house three times moving slow through shadow and learning the house. It was a single-floor, with a smallish garage opening to a long straight driveway. One of three similar homes in a tiny cul de sac called Lucas Ct., the Gildge place was set back further than the others. Looking up the driveway from the street, Cort could barely see it. Moving closer, he understood why: It was near 10:00 on a Friday, and Charles Gildge had turned out the lights and gone to bed. Cort moved silently up to the house and pulled up under a window. He heard the sound of canned sitcom laughter from the room and then the unmistakable strident yapping of a woman's voice shilling for Applebees (eat great, even late!). After a few moments Cort began to creep towards the back door.

***

David Gidge HATED his sister Arya. Ugly, mean, constantly harassing, Ari had been the scourge and bane of his days as far back as he could remember. Even so, he'd jumped at the chance to join her for a sleep-over at Grandpa's. Papa's house was a good time. Papa let him watch and eat whatever he wanted. There was no way stupid Ari was going without him. Now it was 10:12, almost two hours past his normal bed time. David was sitting on the floor of what Papa called his "Guest Room" eating a huge bowl of frosted flakes and chasing it with fun-dip. He had his brand new Jason/Empire binoculars hung around his neck, and he was dressed in unmatched pajamas. Spongebob was on, and Dave was sitting with his nose practically touching the tv screen. Ari had been asleep since 8:30.

perfect!

He said it out loud, to nobody, and got up to go get more cereal. That's when he saw the man outside.

The guest room looked out on Papa's giant back yard. Coming to his feet, young Gildge spied movement in the bushes lining the yard's border. At first he thought it must be the wind playing through the brush, but now he saw what was clearly a person emerge from the bushes, ducking low to the ground for a few yards, then dashing across the yard and out of sight. The figure was against the house now - David knew - and close to the back door.

***

The door was unlocked. Cort eased in to the sound of Seinfeld at full blast. Intel on Charlie Gildge, 68, of 48 quarterbridge rd. had the old man loving "Seinfeld", expensive whiskey, and sleeping almost as much as he loved his grandkids David and Arya.

Cort rolled up on him silently, but realized the wasted effort about halfway across the room. Gildge was snoring like a guy who'd passed out drunk hours ago. The air was full of liquor fumes, stale breath and canned laughter. Cort found himself drifting, starting to obsess about the deadline again. He withdrew what looks like a pen cast from gold from the inside pocket of his black Nike windbreaker and moved towards the besotted, sleeping man.

***

David had always felt that he would make a terrific spy. He was fast, and he figured spies would have to be fast to escape other spies. Dave was smart too, and he had a feeling you had to be really super smart to be a good spy. Dave had won Day View Elementary's 1st grade spelling bee only a few short weeks ago, so he was pretty sure he'd be smart enough to spy.

The most important thing for a truly great spy - David knew for a fact - was sneakiness. That was good, David was the sneakiest person he himself had ever met. He could walk undetected through his Grandmother's whole house undetected, and Gram's house was creaky all over. David had once taken a dare to sneak into the principal's office and steal an apple off his desk. He'd collected two rolls of smarties that day, along with a brand new t-shirt baring the word "Benny's" in extravagant script.

Of course the principal's apple had nothing on what Dave was doing right now. The worst thing Mr. Sevey would do to him - could do to him - would be a note home and some skipped recess. The man David was looking at now had entered his father's house undetected, and was now moving towards his father's sleeping, couch-bound form holding what appeared to be a fancy gold pen. The penalty for messing with this guy, he thought with a shudder) would be more than recess.

For a nerve-shredding few seconds, David thought he was going to sneeze. A firm tickle in the very back of his left nostril started to itch and pucker. He tried with all his will to squeeze it back and quell the itch but it was no use.

Then, nothing happened. All at once the irritation subsided and the sneeze protocols reset. Little Davey Gildge fought back the urge to sigh loudly.

He wasn't worried. Looking from where the stranger stood hovering over his father, a stranger wouldn't know about the crawl space between the top of the wall and ceiling. As long as he remained still, David would remain unseen. He watched, rapt, as the stranger moved in. David could see the pen clearly now. It was sparkling and golden, and it looked somehow heavier, more substantial than most. The stranger was hovering directly over his father now, brandishing the shiny gold pen in his dad's face without a word. He craned slightly for a new angle, but before he could adjust he sneezed - loudly - three times.

Interpreter #14

"When you own a big chunk of the bloody third world, the babies just come with the scenery"

Kayla didn't wait for the discretion of close quarters.

We're on "go". By weeks end...

Xino nodded, allowed a polite embrace.They started back towards Kayla's waiting Lincoln for what he knew would be an interesting ride. At least - he thought, as Kayla's man moved from the to open the doors - we'll be warm.

***

She was yaking away full speed even as Xino ducked into the Lincoln:

I'm bringing the skin changers back to see to this. Most of command will be stateside for the next seven days at least. You and Best figure out logistics with the Mech. We don't need the ass or the grunts, so ask Neccas what he's gonna do, his call. If he doesn't feel good about going without his precious Interpreter tell him to split up and dig in. All the names and faces go through you. No docs. No reports.

She let by a moment to for the plan-change sink in, then continued without waiting out the reply:

I want Cort for Gildge Sr, probably the sister as well. A-Group want erasure for ALL principles. I'm taking the brother myself, I want you and Speed to answer the phone as the other names come up. That end is yours, and I'll handle Cort and the brother. AG says seven days.

After it's done?

I don't know, we'll see...

And you're taking the field? How long has it been?

It hasn't been. What you don't know can't hurt me.

I smiled:

That's encouraging. Was it just the Gildge people?

We've had people tracking it for a week now and so far, yes. If it stays that way...

Silence completed the thought. Three minutes later he was back standing outside, freezing once again.

***

He was still weighing her words 20 minutes later, riding in the back of his own comfy Towne Car.

Kayla Bowman tended towards hyperbole, but A-Group had been cleared for D-Day operations for almost a month. Things would be moving soon regardless of security leaks. Was this it? Finally? For a few seconds he basked in the possibilities, but soon he found every heady thought begat a host of strategic questions that he'd yet to answer in his computer models and simulations.

He knew she'd have a plan and he knew it would be risky. Working with Kayla dictated it would be fashioned in his absence and then laid out for him to tweak. After that Kay would readjust as she saw fit before oscar mic swept the entirety of A-Group into whatever lay on the opposite side of it's ultimate, successfully completed mission.

It would work, he knew, no matter what. Even so, the prospect of success didn't leaven the risks or the enormity of the task. When the mission went, the planet - it's people and places and everything in it - would be cast Into play. It was a lot to think about, especially with at least three more innocent citizens who would die to get it done.

Xino had no qualms about murder in general. Killing was his game, and he played it well, erasing game-pieces for the CIA, Naval Intelligence, A-Group, and whoever else could meet his usually stratospheric price. A hit on innocent civilians for the simple crime of receiving an email was something else again. Of course, this late in the game he'd no real choice. He'd carry out the order, tell himself nobody is truly innocent, keep his eyes on the prize and hope judgement - when it came - would favor his side.

***

Interpreter #13

"War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner."



Tits are are awesome, but tits are weird, bro. Fuckinnnn...Why we get so torqued about a little saggy fat with a nipple? Seriously yo. Boobies...

Our Interpreter had been boozing and smoking and was now in search of conversation. I'd put the boys on the wire at ten yard intervals, all of em out there, locked and loaded, so I was the only one around to talk to. I didn't feel like answering back, and so his stabs at conversation had turned to weedy monologues with
Intercollating bouts of dead silence.

We weren't supposed to be there. The unit wasn't commissioned for the recon, and everyone was crabby for the repurposing. I told my people we were the only ones around, that we'd be relieved in time by line infantry and air support. The reality behind the fib was another matter.

Fire base Rango had been as remote an OP as you'd find in this AO. It had no running water, no shower, no barracks. It was in top of a mountain, propped up on the edge of a hanging valley called Ris. The men stationed there never left, never seemed to wire for supplies, never used the fucking radio. After a while the rumors had kicked up good:

Ris is the CIA

Rango is Navy Intel working on another mission completely.

Ris was manned by special forces operators and a secret even from the good guys.

Like most battlefield rumors, the word on Ris was at least half true. Their mission wasn't the same kind of secret as ours, but it was more than they'd have been able to admit in letters home. the spooks had set up Rango years before the war here had begun. It was a listening post. Wired into a satellite net that could read newsprint from eight miles up.

Division intel lost contact with the op, lost contact with a patrol en route to the op, and lost contact with the eye in the sky. Last local word was that one of the mountain tribes stumbled on the base and overran the wire.

The rags shut down the antennae after securing the post and - officially - that's why we were on the scene.. Infinitely more important - and completely secret - was the immense and potent cache of arms buried in the valley floor a thousand vertical feet below FB Rango.

The spooks had been instigating a war, and they meant to give their boys in the field (which am us) the upper hand, even in the enemy's home turf. Buried under the remote op was an underground chamber full of state -of-the-art, deep-black weaponry. No standard ordinance, a stratospheric security clearance was necescary to get within a hundred mile radius of the armaments at Ris. That's where the mech came in.

Division was ok losing the base, slightly erect about losing the antenna, and shaved-cunt crazy over the lost sci-fi gear. Five hours after the last mayday from the FB, we'd been pulled off the our own mission - over a hundred miles south - to recover and secure the cache.
I'd instructed Mason to double the perimeter guard and start counter-directive patrols. The Column dug in just off a highway almost 3 wooded clicks from the target, hidden and dig in deep, ready to rain 100 different kinds of hell on the Ragman.

I had 20 private operators and 10 spec. force guys hidden at intervals around Rango, waiting for words and - in the Terp's case - abusing intoxicants and talkin shit. I'd heard the 'Changers liked to party on mission but the Terp was - as usual - overstating the point. I'd watched him bury two thickly rolled blunts of extreme smelling keff, all the while bombing slugs of brown liquor from a fat silver flask. Once the entire Mech was reasonably well occupied Mase was to come back, with only his team, inventory the cache and help with the re-fit. The Mech had taken it's position, and all the was left was the giving of the word.