These days, what with dwindling man-power and the general lack of balls amongst the younger generation (not all, but certainly among the generation that grew up playing video game), it was done electronically. You tagged the subject in advance with a marked coat or a RFID secreted somewhere in their goods or through their cell phone signature/phone number, tracked them electronically into a route seeded with micro cams transmitting wirelessly -- hell, you didn't even have to leave the safe house or the van, you could track the whole thing electronically assuming you had dominance of the ELINT space, make sure the guy was clean and tag anyone you suspected, and then guide them into a meet space that was swept constantly for any electronic interference: cell phone blockers, wireless transmission scramblers, white noise generators on the sub-sonic and sonic levels...
Technology. Great stuff.
When it worked. When it didn't, the weaknesses in the New School training came out when the so-called operators actually had to eyeball someone, get out on foot, get out of their car, close in and make sure --
-- unless they had an Old Guy around who knew how to do what needed to be done, and did it, most often by him or her self, and show the young guns a trick or two while doing it.
Mr. Smith as an Old School Old Guy who still had his chops, and had coupled the New School technology to the Old School skill set and drove it with a ruthlessness only someone who had his life burned out of him would have.
Scary.
He laughed and whistled the tune from Mr. Rogers's neighborhood again and again, his own little personal mantra for work and play: It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day in the neighborhood, won't you be mine, won't you be mine...
He sat in his Cherokee three blocks from the park and watched an array of micro-cams transmitting from the route on his laptop; a small split screen showed the real-time location of Jimmy John's cell phone circling around looking for a place to park. True to form, Jimmy John pulled into the parking lot outside the ice cream parlor at the top of the hill, two blocks away from the entry point into the SDR, and he'd be leaving his cell phone in the car.
The advantage of .gov, though, was that we get all the coolest toys.
Mr. Smith grinned. Only the absolutely *coolest* fucking toys.
He opened another split screen, touched a touch pad, and a graphic scrolled up a three-dimensional rendition of a human figure surrounded in glowing colors, as seen from above, WAYYYYY above, like satellite height maybe, with a certain wavelength of light not too far from the laser but not quite to the death ray level, illuminating a certain individual who had been calibrated a long, long time ago, in a country (or on a planet, depending on your favorite movie) far, far away -- and tracking a specific radio frequency as individual as a fingerprint or a human heartbeat, as well as DNA, which is given off pretty much constantly by an individual and appears as dandruff or house dust, anywhere you linger, and if illuminated and magnified gives off a specific individual light signature that Presto Whammy-o means: specific individual.
Which is of extraordinary use in the world of man-hunting, which was what Special Operations was all about. The shooters got the best stuff and the Federales and law enforcement and the consultants and the contractors who built the damn gear took every opportunity they had to test it under field conditions, even if it sometimes bent the law, but that's what the Patriot Act was good for, if you're a person of interest or a terrorist or designated combatant, regardless of where you were born or who you'd served with or what you'd done, you didn't have rights when it came to little things like privacy and so on.
Which made for a conundrum for those who bothered to think about it, but then, introspection is not a particularly sought after attribute in field operators.
In which genre Mr. Smith most definitely was set, very close to the very top of the heap, which is why the Task Force (the Tier One Type Task Force) sent him out to do very special things that required complete deniability, wherever it might take him, even in CONUS.
But back to Jimmy John, no sandwich, though the chain might actually label one after him if they knew what he was like; they'd have to call it The Meat Eater or something, because his old friend Jimmy John was The Real Deal, just as Mr. Smith his own self was The Real Deal, and they'd been classmates and serious competitors, top of the class, First and Second, in the Old School. So if either one of them was going to fuck the other, they'd make sure to at least give the other a kiss, in memory of old-timey times.
And there he was, alive and bright on his nickel-sized web-cam transmitting to a repeater the size of a key-fob stuck in a tree, Jimmy John Wylde, AKA Johnny Wylde to people who didn't share his history, or at least a certain chapter. Mr. Smith found that what was left of his mouth and lips wanted to curl in a smile, and he felt a certain warming he wanted to deny deep in his belly.
Jimmy John, Jimmy John. Where do we belong?
He laughed. Probably in the grave. And there you have it.
Jimmy had aged well. Still fit, though with a little hitch in his get-along that was noticeable. Mr. Smith clicked on the image to make sure the variation in his gait was captured in the database; gaits change, but there are certain parameters that mark it out, and coupled with other things like ELINT signature, DNA, facial bone structure analysis and gait, you can get a purty darn good ID on someone from a distance. Human Identification At A Distance, as the geeks at DARPA liked to say.
Worked for him.
He zoomed in on Jimmy's face. Lots of lines there, boyo. A hard life. He remembered Jimmy as a young-gun he'd been a young gun, too... hard charging and full of the testosterone and adrenaline that made for a great young operator, coupled with just the right seasoning of humility in the face of seniors and the forward lean of the terminally aggressive.
Hank, what the fuck are we doing here?
Shit, son, where else we get paid to do this shit? Tell me that? Only thing lacking is the Swedish Bikini Team and a bucket of Roofies, and I believe they'll teach us how to get that here shortly.
Raucous laughter, as the two of them lay up in a hide with water trickling all around them, taking turns on the spotting scope...
Mr. Smith watched Jimmy come down the street, look around, do a casual 360 degree scan disguised (well) by a stretch look near, far, high, low, don't hang on the target, everything must have a reason... and then start a stroll down the hill, paralleling the grassy knoll where once, long ago, when Jimmy John was a teen, he'd surprised a man attacking a young girl at dusk and chased them off should of killed that fucker, Jimmy John, hate those kind of assholes...but I gotta ask...did you get a date with the girl? and Jimmy paused, crossed the road, went across a lane of bike traffic and turned to the left, starting walking against the flow these cameras rock, and the switching software is pretty seamless, gotta let the geeks know I need more of these and now he was walking the route, relaxed, enjoying the water, the nice soft Midwesterners in their expensive North Face and Patagonia walking along, more than a few cute girls, and nary a sign of any one spotting for him, though if it had been me, I'd stand off and go Old School, use some binos like a local bird watcher, but today, it's just me and thee, Jimmy and now Jimmy was approaching the choke point, where Mr. Smith had a little surprise waiting remember that day when that asshole in the O Course gave us shit about putting a claymore in the trees? Hell, I ended up disguising one as a radio because a claymore was Old School, especially with the very cool encrypted frequency detonator that made it New School/Old School, which was Mr. Smith's favorite combination, because, son, not many motherfuckers can roll like that, LOL as the geeks liked to say, and a choke point required a decision, the branching point in the decision tree as the theorists like to say, the point where to put up or shut up came about: kill the boy right now in a most-dramatic fashion, or, hell, maybe have that long deferred chat? Kill him now or kill him later?
Decisions, decisions.
Mr. Smith took a tiny parabolic cone mounted on a hand piece and leaned ou
t the window, watching his laptop. He focused the otherwise invisible dot from the emitter on the hand-held on Jimmy's head, then clicked and spoke into the laptop microphone.
Hey Jimmy.
Jimmy stopped. Looked around him.
Voice to skull, brah. Remember that?
Mr. Smith zoomed in on the vocal chords, let the computer do the work.
Subvocalize, brah. You remember how do that?
Jimmy nodded. Twice, slowly, looking out at the water as though lost deep in thought.
Yeah. I remember that.
Coolio, brah. I want you to turn around and walk towards the tree directly behind you. There's a small children's cooler at the base of the tree. Pick it up.
Jimmy turned around, walked to the tree, knelt and looked at the child's cooler.
Pick it up, dude.
Jimmy did. Mr. Smith had to chuckle and shake his head, at the look on Jimmy's face.
Chillax, Jimmy John. If I wanted you gone, I'd have gone....BANG!!
And Jimmy did jump, the chump.
Sorry, dude. Couldn't resist. Remember when that fucking instructor set himself on fire in the IED class?
What's in here?
Claymore. Wireless detonator.
What do you want me to say?
Well, first, let's undetonate that motherfucker, shall we? I don't want to fuck up a perfectly good conversation. And that mom and kids coming your way down the path would be unacceptable collateral damage. At least in my book. How 'bout in yours?
Jimmy opened up the package.
What do I do?
Shit, you forgot everything already? See the red LED? Next to it's a tiny little knob. Turn it till the LED goes out. Then unscrew the detonator and you're golden.
Jimmy did just that, so casual and relaxed, he looked like a dad rummaging through his kid's cooler.
You can toss it if you want, Jimmy. Though it's not a good idea to keep high explosives around, you know? Or you can keep walking and I'll tell you where you can drop it and I'll recover it. Or a friend. You bring any friends today?
No.
That's you, Jimmy John. A true blue American Boy Scout. If it was me, I'd have friends high and low, near and far. But you, you'll trust ol' Hank, even though you haven't seen me for a long timey-time. Yes?
Are you Hank?
Who the fuck else knows your history, bro? Nobody but your swim-buddy.
How...
Another time, Jimmy John. I kinda need to cut to the chase here. So here's some info dump, you absorb all you can, just like they told us, switch to that infallible internal auditory mode the NLP guru gave you. In other words, just listen the fuck up. Got it?
I understand.
Good. Knew you would. You and me, Jimmy. We got history. And you know what? As far as I'm concerned, it's not just a good history, it's a great history. Okay, so you left me to burn...
I didn't fucking leave you!
Hmmm. I remember you liked all those samurai movies. Remember that one you made me watch when we were cooling our heels in Bogota? Or was it Lima, fuck, I'm getting old, I can't remember. RASHOMON. Toshiro fucking Mifune. I love that guy. Remember that movie, Jimmy John?
Yes.
So you get my point?
Yes.
Memory is a funny thing. Everybody has their own version. So I got mine, and you got yours. Granted, we were both pretty fucked up at the time. Getting shot *and* getting burned? Damn, I'd say I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, but I have and I do and I probably always will. But that's not you, Jimmy John. Never been you, never will be you. At the risk of being maudlin, you're like the brother I never had. So with you, I guess I have one, right? Never mind, I told you to listen. Jimmy John, I was never the philosopher you were. Me, I'm just a practical guy that has a gift for blowing shit the hell up, and a seriously messed up set of ethical standards that continues to fail the test in the shifting landscape of this here Global War on Terror, you feel me? Loyalty is kind of an abstract to me unless there's a body attached, and bro, you're about the only body that's got that attachment for me. But maybe we'll get a chance to get all weepy about it some other time, take turns washing each other's back in the shower and so on. So cut to the chase time, Jimmy John: I work for some people. Those people have you on their radar. I am not privy as to *why* you are on their radar, but I can tell you this: their intention is not good. Actually, seriously fucked up. Someone who did *not* do their due diligence (or maybe they did, bro, and they might be trying to test me and/or you, you know the hall of mirrors drill) asked me to find you and put you down. Period. End of story. So Jimmy, these people, they're .gov, kinda, and .mil, kinda, and private sector, kinda -- all at the same time. If you follow my meaning. So I'm here to tell you, I'm not pushing the button on you. At least not today. But I can't go near you and I can't help you directly. Capisce? So whatever you got in the way of PERSEC better crank up as high as you got it. Because I'm going to have to at least make the attempt, though, knowing me, it will be a near miss of the smoky kind. And then, exit stage left. Got it?
Hank, we need...
I know we fucking need. We both fucking need. Right now you fucking need to walk down to the bandshell and place, not drop, place that fucking package in the recycling bin, and then trot the fuck back to the coffee shop and pick up that piece of shit FJ Cruiser of yours and get out of here. We'll have that day, Jimmy John. But right now, you're an Innocent Bystander in a very bad version of Lawyers, Guns and Money. Do it. Now.
And Mr. Smith, hard guy that he was, turned off his gear, sat back with his collar turned up, tilted his head back and dumped eye rinse into his eye sockets till the pink fluid ran down his face, while the only person he loved in the whole world did exactly as he had told him to do.
Jimmy John Wylde
My hands shook on the wheel.
Dang, Jimmy, you shake like a dog shitting peach pits...
That's what Hank would say. The whole conversation.
Through the windshield I watched a Lake City PD cruiser roll by; then a mom with a stroller walking down the sidewalk, chatting on her cell phone; an old man walking an old poodle. Wind blowing dry leaves.
Old memories.
Just what was going on?
I took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. Turned the key in the ignition cars are great, Jimmy Jay, you got all you need in one place: ignition sources, power, fuel, and a contained space...remember the shaped charge in that guy's helicopter seat? Remembering Hank's constant laughter and how he ran rings around the instructors...
So what to do?
I took another deep breath and shifted into gear, pulled out of the lot and started for home.
Watched my rear view mirror for what might be gaining on me.
Lizzy Caprica
The Space for Peaceful Living was one of Lizzy's favorite places. Whenever she entered the building, she felt the energy of the place wash over her like a cooling shower. The first floor was one big open space for the yoga studio and the dance classes; locker rooms and a sauna were there off to the side. Upstairs were healing spaces for reiki, shamanic, massage, tarot and a few open spaces, and the office.
The yoga classes were the best in town and attracted other yoga teachers, professional body workers, dancers (classical ballet as well as exotic, including several that worked at both, many of them friends with Lizzy). The senior yoga instructor was a serene grey haired woman with the body of a 25 year old named Amarantha Bodine, who taught yoga and as well as healing energetic work.
Lizzy parked her bag, unrolled her mat, sat cross-legged in her usual place, smiled and waved back at Amarantha who walked around greeting the regulars, checking the heat and starting her favorite warm-up CD. There were some new faces, always a few because Amarantha was popular, and a steady stream of people seeking a spot in her class. Lizzy noticed an attractive blonde woman, buffed with the muscle of a serious athlete, talking with Amarantha, who nodded, touched the blond woman's arm and pointed he
r to a place in the class.
Lizzy smiled as the woman unrolled her mat beside her.
"Hello," Lizzy said. "Welcome to the class."
"Thanks, gorgeous!" the woman said. "I hear this is the place to be."
"It is. You have an amazing body! Do you do a lot of yoga?"
"No, I'm more of a strength and aerobics kinda gal. Think it's time I started working more on flexibility, though. Part of getting older."
"You don't look a day over 30."
The blonde woman gave Lizzy a dazzling smile. "You are now officially my Best Friend Forever. What's your name?"
Lizzy extended her hand; the other woman's was strong, with a hint of callus. "I'm Lizzy."
"Hi, Lizzy! I'm Dee Dee. Happy to meet you!"
"Hi Dee Dee. Do you prefer Dee Dee or Dee?"
"Either or both! What do you do?"
"I'm a dancer."
"What kind?"
"Exotic."
"Oh, honey," Dee Dee said, leaning close. "I want to *party* with you..."
Deon Oosthuizen
Deon dotted the working bits of Jimmy's rebuilt Glocker with some Break-Free and cycled the action by hand. Smooth as glass, smooth as silk, smooth as a baby's ass or the inside of a young girl's thigh.
Nice work, Deon.
He'd taken the magazines apart, and carefully filed and beveled the edges of the new magazine follower, and then installed the Dawson Precision mag extender. Now the 15-rd magazines held 23 rounds, and the back-up G-17 magazines held 25. Plenty for a little fight. These Dawsons were good kit.
Good to go.
He took out a box of Speer Gold Dot 9mm in 124gr, loaded the magazines up, and then went downstairs to his range. He set a target out at 15 meters, and systematically pumped rounds into the black X ring of a NRA bull. He studied the ragged hole, took his sight tool and tweaked the Warren just a fraction to the left, then ran another magazine through a fresh target.
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