by Ken Goddard
"Affirmative. Debrief tomorrow morning, the Windmill, civvies, 0700 hours. Tango-one-one, out."
"One-zero, out," Rustman spoke into his collar mike. Then he turned to confront Simon Whatley, who sat ashen-faced against the far side of the boat.
"Was that your stupid idea, or his?"
If possible, Simon Whatley's face turned even whiter.
"I don't know what you're talking about." He tried to act as though he had no idea what Rustman meant, but failed completely.
Rustman didn't even bother to react. Instead, the retired military officer simply fixed his cold gaze on the senior congressional staffer's watery eyes.
"One more time, Whatley. And this time, I want you to think very carefully before answering. Was the camera your idea, or his?"
Whatley hesitated briefly, then murmured, "Mine."
Rustman shook his head when he received the expected confirmation.
"Let me guess. You thought it'd be a good idea to have pictures in case you ever had to claim that you and Smallsreed were running your own covert investigation?"
The congressional district office manager nodded his head silently.
"But I bet you came up with that brilliant idea yesterday, before you understood how completely and unalterably committed you and Smallsreed are to this operation now. And I bet you just forgot to call the kid off when you picked up the money packet, right?"
Whatley nodded again.
"What's his name?"
"Bennington," Whatley barely whispered.
"First name?"
"Uh, uh, Keith, but I can assure you…"
The military officer brought his right hand up in a cautioning manner. "Are you capable of convincing Mr. Bennington that something very unpleasant will happen to him if he tries any more of these stupid stunts on his own?"
"Of course." The congressional staffer bobbed his head up and down frantically. "I can assure you that — "
"Good." Rustman reached forward and started up the boat engine again. "Then it won't be necessary to send Wintersole."
Chapter Six
She was exactly as the Sage described.
And more.
Much more.
When she arrived, they all gathered around to greet her, the men and women of the Chosen Brigade of the Seventh Seal who rarely saw a new face or heard a new story in their severely isolated mountainside retreat, let alone two. The men were especially curious and hovered until they got close enough to see for themselves. Then they swallowed hard and quickly moved back a respectful distance.
The women offered her tea, made from a scarce dried herb which she immediately recognized, and the most comfortable seat in the communal meeting place. She accepted both with a natural grace that captivated them all.
The women felt tense, for obvious reasons, but also intrigued.. and, a tribute to their inherent grace, only slightly jealous.
The children stared wide-eyed and enchanted — especially the older boys.
But the men just stood there, stunned, and mesmerized, and in the fullest sense of the expression, terrified out of their minds.
They all learned, as she sipped her tea, that she had moved into the old Dogsfire Inn — an ancient house built around an ancient tree about a mile or so down the creek from their isolated community. She had recently purchased it from the estate of the previous owner, an elderly woman of indeterminate age who had operated the inn's small restaurant, held seances, and told fortunes when she wasn't attending her duties as the local postmistress and cursing the government in at least three different foreign languages.
Yes, the woman smiled warmly at them. She, too, had heard the stories about the previous owner being a gypsy whose parents died in a fire way back in 1862. Such interesting stories. Very imaginative.
She took another sip of tea.
Wasn't she scared, a young and attractive woman like her, to live in a place like that, all by herself? They all wanted to know.
She smiled pleasantly and then stretched, unintentionally — perhaps — revealing a taut and slender figure beneath a loose tunic that embodied the very essence of everything sleek and sensual.
Scared? No, of course not. Why should she be scared? She laughed. Such a beautiful location, and such a beautiful old house — or it would be once she furnished it. And, as they could all clearly see, it wasn't as if she lived there alone.
The children bobbed their heads, completely entranced by this once barely imaginable fantasy suddenly there among them in the flesh.
The men gulped nervously and made a conscious effort to hold their bladders.
She thanked them for the tea and stood, causing the men to step back hastily and give her — or rather them — plenty of room.
What was it the Sage had said? Very very dangerous.
Jesus God, yes.
What would she do down there all by herself? one of the women asked.
Well, she wasn't sure just yet. Keep the restaurant open, if it wasn't too much trouble, and perhaps hold seances and tell fortunes when she wasn't busy being the local postmistress and speaking her mind about the sorry state of the government.
She was only fluent in two foreign languages, she admitted apologetically, smiling that warm, charming, and seductive smile one last time. But that was all right.
Her cat would provide the third.
The group parted, and the strange and beautiful creature glided away.
She and the sleek, muscular, and terribly dangerous animal that never moved far from her side.
Chapter Seven
At ten-fifteen that Sunday morning, while the uniformly bruised, muddy, and exhausted federal wildlife agents of Bravo and Charlie Teams worked to dismantle the practical exercise props and untangle their emotions, Deputy Special Ops Chief Freddy Moore entered the building assigned to the Fish and Wildlife Service at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center, walked down the long hallway, and stood in the doorway to the conference room.
"Well?" David Halahan looked up inquisitively.
Freddy Moore handed his boss the instructor evaluation sheets.
"Pretty much what we expected on the individual batteries," Moore reported as Halahan scanned the pencil-marked pages, "which isn't that surprising seeing as how we handpicked Charlie Team from the last two agent classes. Youthful enthusiasm coupled with superior endurance, speed, hand-eye skills, reaction times, education, and training. You can see the effects all through the combined event scores. The only agent on Bravo Team who even came close to keeping up with these kids on the skill events was Lightstone on the Hogan's Alley and hand-to-hand drills. And he was damned lucky Wu didn't put him into the infirmary with one of those flying-kick combinations," Moore concluded reflectively.
"What about the rest of them?"
Freddy Moore glanced at his notes. "Let's see. Stoner and Riley maxed out on the bench weights as usual, but Stoner lost a lot of time on the agility phase. They both have the upper bodies of a couple of damned gorillas, but Stoner's eyes are getting worse and his lateral mobility's near zero — I think his knees are basically held together with pins and wire. And, speaking of limited movement, Paxton's got so much scar tissue on both arms now, he can't even pass the flight physical to maintain his pilot's license. Fact is, it's about all he can do to hold a pistol steady enough to qualify. Probably ought to retire or deactivate both of them on medicals for their own good. And Takahara's at least six months behind on the latest electronic surveillance and security techniques. He tripped two sensors on one of the entries and never did spot the phone tap in the kitchen."
Halahan raised an eyebrow.
"How'd that happen?"
His deputy shrugged. "Not necessarily his fault. The transmitter was molded into the base receiver with its own shielded power source, so there wasn't any line drop. One of our electronic engineers at the forensics lab put it together for us. Takahara had never seen anything like it before — mostly because he missed the last tech-agent in-service class
— and there was no way he could've detected it with the gear he had with him during the exercise."
"Even so, I would've expected him to know about the new technology, and be prepared for the unexpected," Halahan commented.
"That's pretty much what he said, too, although he wasn't that polite," Moore agreed. "And as for Woeshack… well, I'm still of the opinion that he shouldn't be allowed anywhere near any federal government motorized vehicle, much less a goddamned airplane. All things considered, I find it truly amazing that he's still alive."
"He claims he comes from a long line of Eskimo shamans who provide the necessary spiritual guidance when he flies," Halahan explained. "OAS just recertified him, so maybe there's something to it."
"You mean like Paxton's poor black sharecropper ancestors who used to practice voodoo on the plantation?"
"No, that's pure Paxton bullshit." Halahan smiled for the first time that morning. "So what's your take on what happened out there?"
"You mean why does older, slower, half-crippled, and otherwise handicapped Bravo Team take the flag every time, no matter how we stack the deck?" Moore shrugged. "The obvious, I suppose. They watch out for each other. Play off their obvious strengths. Cover their known weaknesses. Continually adapt to the situation at hand. Refuse to give up. And, of course, they cheat."
"You mean the septic tank?"
"One of many examples, as I recall." Moore resisted the urge to chuckle. "In fact, looking back over the past week, I think the only thing they haven't cheated on is the restriction on live ammo."
"I thought you said you were going to compensate for the cheating — put more emphasis on the fundamentals?" Halahan reminded him.
"I thought I had." Moore grinned apologetically. "Hell, I even designed this last exercise myself, based on some input I got from Boggs."
"Wilbur Boggs?"
"Yeah. He called a few days ago to bullshit and bat around a couple of ideas for a project. He didn't say so directly, but I got the feeling he's hoping to borrow one of the teams for something he's got going out in Oregon."
Halahan's eyebrows rose as he recalled the details of the training scenario he'd just witnessed. "Something involving a congressman?"
"That's the way I read it," Moore acknowledged. "Don't you?"
"What did you tell him?" Halahan stopped leafing through the evaluations and observed his deputy expectantly.
"That I'd get back to him later after we finished in-service."
"Good answer." Halahan nodded his head approvingly. "So tell me more about this exercise that Boggs helped you design."
"Yeah, well, the basic idea was that Lightstone and Paxton would make the contact at the campsite, recognize the congressman and his girlfriend, spot the payoff situation and the illegal dough, then handle the situation in a diplomatic manner that might actually result in a decent case with admissible evidence and a minimum number of follow-up Congressionals."
"And presumably without getting themselves or their partners killed in the process," Halahan suggested wryly.
"That was the general idea." Freddy Moore smiled. "According to the script, backup agents are available, but radio communications are out. The girlfriend is unpredictable and may be armed and dangerous — Marashenko, by any definition. Donato and LiBrandi were born to the roles of sleazy congressman and lobbyist/bagman. Wu steps onstage as the ever-faithful congressional aide who doubles as a bodyguard, and LiBrandi brings along his own street-smart baby-sitter — a role played to perfection by our genuine Harlem street kid Antone Green — to keep an eye on the money. I figured all that just might make our boys sweat a little for a change."
"You think Bravo Team came up with a legitimate solution to the problem?"
Moore shrugged. "Depends on how you look at it. Starting out by poisoning the opposing team leader's lunch isn't exactly what I'd call a textbook solution."
"They actually poisoned Riley?" Halahan interrupted, blinking in surprise.
"Depends on your definition." Freddy Moore failed miserably in his attempt not to grin. "The base nurse suspects a massive dose of a fast-acting purgative, most likely self-administered by the victim through an unfortunate double helping of refried beans and hot sauce. The cafeteria staff claims complete ignorance, and I understand the medical staff declined to investigate the matter any further."
"In other words, you're suggesting it was Riley's own fault?"
"For going about his business in a predictable manner and leaving himself open to a very effective countermove?" Moore shrugged. "I suppose you could look at it that way."
"And as far as the congressional contact issue goes," the Special Ops chief raised the potentially explosive issue calmly, "I guess there's not much point in being overly concerned with diplomatic nuances when your congressman/suspect manages to get himself handcuffed to his lobbyist/bagman buddy, and then ends up getting dragged headfirst into a functioning septic tank when said buddy dives for a loose gun." Halahan shook his head at the memory. "Probably a good moral in there somewhere."
"No doubt."
"Am I being reasonable in assuming that Bravo Team also bribed at least one of the groundskeepers to lay a new pathway to the cabin last night?" Halahan continued, in his methodical manner, to nail down the details of the debacle.
"Yep. Got them to run it right over the nearby septic tank, the top of which the grounds crew and a couple of as-yet-unidentified assistants thoughtfully replaced with a bunch of mostly sawed-through crossbeams and some real thin bender-board, and then covered with gravel." Moore chuckled. "That seems to have been Woeshack's contribution to the overall plan. He claims his ancestors used to hunt mammoths on the Arctic slopes using the same technique."
"Agent Woeshack lacks a firm grip on reality," Halahan reminded his deputy dryly. "He's also believes he's a halfway decent pilot."
"True, but I understand he also came up with the dish-detergent-on-the-roof ploy to supplement Takahara's snake-in-the-box surprise, which you have to admit was a nice touch."
"Effective, if nothing else," Halahan conceded. "Continue."
"Well, with Riley out of the picture, that freed up Stoner in terms of size and muscle. But my guess is that after watching the individual exercises, Paxton figured that Lightstone would have trouble with Wu and those flying kicks of his, no matter how things worked out," Moore postulated. "I imagine he and Takahara did a little research and discovered something in Wu's and Green's backgrounds suggesting that they might be effectively distracted by the sudden and unexpected appearance of a twelve-foot reticulated python."
"Who the hell wouldn't be?"
"Exactly. Which only left one major problem."
"How to deal with Marashenko?"
Freddy Moore nodded.
"Bravo Team knew she could be a significant problem, no matter how they rigged the game," he easily surmised. "They saw her shoot in the simulator courses, and I gather they were suitably impressed. They had to assume she'd either be armed, or have access to a weapon. That meant that if they let her get to her gun — or anyone's gun for that matter — she could take out the entire team."
"Thus the distraction." Halahan sighed.
"Yep." Freddy Moore tried to suppress another grin.
"Think she'll file an EEO complaint against Lightstone?"
"For what," Moore asked reasonably. "The hug and kiss, or the choke-hold?"
"I'm not sure one was any more legal than the other."
The deputy chief considered this possibility for a long moment before answering.
"I don't think so," he finally concluded. "Marashenko's a tough gal and a damn good rookie agent. My guess is that she's more embarrassed than anything because she let Lightstone catch her off guard. In retrospect, she should've kissed him right back, smiled, stepped back, drawn her Smith, and threatened to double-tap him — heart and head — if he so much as twitched. Instead, she lost her temper… and her gun."
"Not to mention the object of the exercise when LiBrandi dived fo
r the damn thing and dragged Donato into the septic tank with him." Halahan shook his head, still not quite believing what he had seen.
"One of life's finer moments." Freddy Moore smiled cheerfully. "The stuff of which legends are born."
"Legends?"
Moore shrugged. "Pretty much guaranteed in this case. Word is that Takahara set up two concealed video cameras to record the entire exercise. I don't think Charlie Team's going to live this one down for quite a while."
Halahan sighed deeply. "No, I suppose not."
The chief of Special Ops treated his subordinate supervisor to another long silence.
"So what do we do about them?" he finally asked.
"Bravo or Charlie?"
"Charlie."
"They're good young agents, but they got their confidence pretty badly shaken today," Moore replied frankly. "I wouldn't recommend sending them out on their own on anything really serious just yet."
"What about that Oregon deal?"
"What Oregon deal?" Freddy Moore's expression darkened in confusion. "You mean Boggs?"
Halahan shook his head. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of that character who's supposedly selling Bigfoot souvenirs. The one who claims to be a direct descendent of Cochise, and therefore immune from federal prosecution."
"I vaguely remember reading the report." Moore's features slowly cleared. "Didn't he turn out to be just some crazy-old-fart white guy, Jim Star or Starrs or something like that, whose great-great-grandmother may have had a part-Indian boyfriend who might have been an Apache, but nobody knew for sure… or cared, for that matter?"
"That's our boy." Halahan smiled. "Calls himself the Sage now."
"As in prophet?"
"Or dried-up weed, take your pick."
"Well" — Moore pondered Halahan's remarks thoughtfully — "since we both agree that even the federal government would be a little reluctant to prosecute a certifiably crazy person for selling souvenirs made out of a creature that doesn't exist, am I to assume that the Sage has gone out and done something even more stupid than usual?"
