Topless Agenda

by Lyle Christie

  Babs smiled for the first time since hearing the news about his sister.

  “Yeah, I outsmarted you all and took over the Sozo. It was awesome.”

  That was the first time I heard him use the word awesome, so he must have been pretty proud of his little stunt. I suppose I could let him have his one victory, as France got so few of them.

  “Yeah, so use your awesomeness to guard the Sozo.”

  “No, I am going to use my awesomeness to help rescue my little sister.”

  “Finn, Babs is right. You’re about to make an incursion into a terrorist stronghold against an unknown number of hostiles. You’re going to need help,” Corn said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since now. I’m going too.”

  “They don’t have a wetsuit big enough to fit you.”

  “Fuck you. It’s settled. All three of us are going,” Corn said.

  “Oh, well in that case, we might as well bring along some wine and cheese and have a lovely little picnic on the beach.”

  “Actually, Finn, I think it’s a good idea that you all go. It’ll be a nice bonding experience for the three of you idiots,” Lux said.

  “Fine, we’ll make it a little ménage a trois, but I’m not riding bitch. I want my own Jet Ski.”

  “I’d rather ride with Babs, anyway,” Corn said.

  “Excellent. I’ll have Kip fuel them up and get them ready,” Billings said.

  “How long until we reach Tunisia, Pete?” I asked.

  “About two hours.”

  “Okay then. I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to get my shit together, so anyone interested in weaponry should stop by my cabin. Oh, and please knock first.”

  “In case you have a woman in there?” Lux asked, sarcastically.

  “It’s mostly a courtesy thing, but you never know.”

  I went to my cabin to prepare for the night’s activities. This was going to be an up close and personal kind of operation, which meant leaving the long guns at home—unless I could get Corn or Babs to hang back on the perimeter with a sniper rifle to cover our asses, but I doubted either of those stubborn assholes would be willing to stay clear of the frontline action. This, of course, brought up another concern—namely, how they would perform? Both of them had military training and combat experience, but Corn, for instance, had been a desk jockey for the last five years, and the only thing I could imagine him taking down by force would be an all you can eat buffet. He had been a PJ, but these days he would likely only go through hell and high water to get at something with cheese, meat, and about eight thousand calories. Babs, to his credit, had been in French the special forces, but, like Corn, had also been out of the game for a while and was little more than a soft French aristocrat. Sure, he’d been pretty good in our restaurant brawl, but this was life and death, and I suspect the only thing he’s murdered lately was an almond croissant. Oh well, I guess we had to play the hand we’d been dealt, which meant all we had was an oversexed private investigator, a chubby desk jockey, and a Frenchman—making us quite an unusual threesome. If there were an A Team out there, not unlike the one in the silly nineteen eighties television show, then we were its exact opposite, and, if I were to give a name to our ragtag group of ex-soldiers, I would have to call it the B team—the B standing for boy—as in boy are we fucked.

  I took out my pistols, disassembled, cleaned, and oiled them then moved onto my HK 94 submachine gun. It was truly the Rolls Royce of firearms with its smooth roller bearing action, reliability, and accuracy. It was the staple of every hostage rescue team the world over and with good reason. It recoiled no more than a pellet gun but delivered high velocity 9mm rounds anywhere you pointed it. Buono! I heard a knock at my door and called out.

  “Entrer!” I said

  A moment later Babs and Corn walked in and joined me beside the bed, and they eyed my weapons like two children standing in front of a candy counter.

  “Nice collection. I assume you’re already done masturbating since you told us to come in,” Corn said.

  “Actually, I was waiting for you two so we could have a proper circle jerk. Now, pick your poison boys!”

  “I’ll take those two Beretta 92’s,” Babs said.

  “Perfect, as those just happen to belong to you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I stole them from your presidential mansion.”

  “Might I say that you were a shitty houseguest.”

  “You might, but now you have them when you need them. Funny how things work out.”

  “Yeah—funny,” he said, dryly.

  “Any chance of one of you assholes hanging back on the perimeter and manning a sniper rifle?”

  “No,” they both said, in unison.

  Oh well. I figured as much. Meanwhile, Corn reached over towards the HK 94.

  “No chance,” I said, as I smacked his hand.

  He instead reached for one of my pistols, and, this time, I nodded my approval. Then, he noticed my tactical vest, and his face lit up as though he were staring at a steaming hot plate of chili cheese fries. Unable to control himself, he reached for that as well, but I cut him off yet again with another quick slap to the back of his hand.

  “Sorry, no dice there either, buddy.”

  “What if I let you sleep with Lux again?”

  “What do you mean if you let him?” Lux said, from the doorway.

  Sweet nymphs of ninjutsu was she sneaky.

  “I was just kidding,” Corn said.

  “I hope so for your sake. A night with me is worth a hell of a lot more than a tactical vest, you piece of shit.”

  “Agreed,” I said.

  Corn scowled at me.

  “What? It’s true. I’d even throw in the HK 94 as well,” I added.

  “In that case we might just be able to come to come kind of arrangement,” he said.

  Lux elbowed Corn in his large duvet cover-like midsection, and the blow elicited a painful grunt.

  “You ladies ready to go?” Lux asked.

  “We are, as matter of fact,” I said.

  Just then, Kip appeared in the doorway.

  “I just wanted to tell you that the Jet Skis are all fueled up and ready.”

  “Thanks, Kip. I guess now all we can do is wait.”

  I looked around the room at my unlikely compatriots and said a silent prayer to myself that everything would go well, and all would live to see another day.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Operation Rapunzel

  WE REACHED THE coast of Tunisia just after six o’ clock and anchored at the coordinates the terrorists had given us. It was officially go-time, so Babs, Corn, and I immediately headed into the dive room to get ready for our wet ride on the Jet Skis. I decided to call our little mission Operation Rapunzel, which seemed fitting considering Letizia’s blond hair and current predicament. I chose the same wetsuit I had worn the night of my assault on Soft Taco Island while Babs found a similar one hanging on the rack. He was pretty svelte and easily slipped into the rubbery fabric, but Corn was another story, altogether. His wetsuit was an extra large, but I had a feeling that Corn’s usual clothing might have an extra X or two on the label, which meant getting into the rubbery fabric was going to be an arduous task. After several minutes of swearing, grunting, and squirming, he had managed to get all of his appendages into the suit, but Babs and I had to get on either side of him and pull the fabric together, so that he could, at last, zip it up—the result being that he now looked like a big grey tamale or perhaps a pregnant dolphin.

  “I think you look good, but you need a catchy nickname. How about Flubber the friendly dolphin,” I suggested, which was a reference to the nineteen sixties classic television show Flipper that followed the adventures of a park ranger, his two sons, and their friendly dolphin.

  “I like it,” Babs said.

  “You know what? Fuck you, guys.”

  “I take it back. Maybe it should be Flubber the unfriendly dolphin.”
>
  “Make your jokes, but you’ve seen how this family eats. You’d be just as big if you were in my shoes. I’m telling you—I took one for the team when I married Lux."

  “What team?” Lux asked, as she unexpectedly appeared at the door to the dive room.

  “The team that’s going to get Flubber the unfriendly dolphin back into the ocean,” I said, pointing at Corn.

  “Why do you have to be so mean to each other?” Lux asked.

  “Men giving each other shit is as old as time itself. It’s how we face our frailties and become better people.”

  “It’s mean.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still funny.”

  “I’m afraid he’s correct,” Babs added.

  “Great, now you’ve even gotten the Frenchman embroiled in your childish antics. Hundreds of years of culture and you two idiots destroy it all in seconds.”

  “All part of re-masculating him and severing his deep ties to his latent Frenchness,” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re just trying to put the man back into the Frenchman,” Corn added.

  “It’s amazing—suddenly I love farts and want to eat potato chips and drink beer with all of my fat friends,” Babs said.

  “Boom!” Corn said.

  “Mission accomplished,” I added, as Corn and I smiled and performed a fist bump.

  Lux wasn’t amused and stared scornfully. Oh well, at least her desire for us to bond was coming to fruition, and, truthfully, this was just the kind of camaraderie you wanted on an assault team, and I was starting to think that it all might just work out. At that point, Corn and Babs grabbed their things and walked out to the main room, leaving Lux and me alone. As I turned to follow them out the door, Lux abruptly stepped into my path and smiled mischievously as she cast her gaze upon my male reproductive region.

  “No dive room boner this time?” she asked.

  She was referring once again to the infamous boner that I had gotten in the dive room during our Soft Taco Island adventure. Men were men, unfortunately, and trying to hold back a boner in that situation would have been like trying to stop time itself.

  “Nope, but maybe if you showed me your boobs again, you might get a reaction,” I said.

  She lifted her shirt over her breasts for a brief moment but was, of course, wearing a bra. Still, it was enough of a show to get my mind racing and make my south pole want to point north.

  “That’s not fair. You’re wearing a bra.”

  “Life isn’t always fair,” she said.

  “It’s OK, I have photographic memory, so it’s all stored away up here in my spank bank,” I said, pointing at my head.

  “Do you really think about me when you masturbate?”

  “I should probably lie and say no, but I’m too big of a man not to mention that I’ve thought about you on the occasional lonely night.”

  She took a moment to think, and a conspiratorial smile formed on her deviously luscious lips.

  “Well then, far be it for me to impede the quality of your whacking off,” she said, as she lifted up her shirt, this time slipping the bra free as well.

  My eyes were instantly drawn to her beautiful bosoms, and, more specifically, the bullseyes that were her pointy nipples. I, of course, stared in complete stupefaction, unable to form words.

  “Is that enough of a view to inspire some decent masturbation?” she asked.

  “Possibly.”

  She slipped her shirt and bra back into place then reached down and took hold of my package, looking oddly satisfied at her findings.

  “Oh, I’d say the answer is definitely,” she said.

  “You’re evil.”

  “And you’re easy.”

  “True.”

  It was time to change the subject and get the hell out of the dive room before she raised my flag to full mast. I, therefore, made a hasty exit and found that Kip had the Jet Skis in the water, and Babs and Corn were strapping their weapons and gear into place. I did the same, and, with all of us mounted up and ready to go, Kip handed us each a wireless waterproof radio and headset, which would be an essential tool, as it meant that we would be able to maintain contact with each other and the Sozo at all times.

  “Convenient,” I said.

  “Yeah, and they were conveniently delivered by an Agency courier just before we left the Caribbean,” Kip said.

  “You’re welcome,” Corn called out, from his Jet Ski.

  “Thanks, Flubber.”

  Billings arrived and chuckled as he took in the scene.

  “You all make quite a team.”

  “The newly reimagined three amigos,” I said.

  “You mean les deux amis et le gros dauphin hostile,” Babs said.

  “Oui,” I responded.

  “Very funny. I speak French fluently by the way, so putain vous deux vous remercie beaucoup,” he said, which roughly translated as fuck you both very much.”

  “Well, good luck, guys,” Billings said.

  “Thanks, Pete, but you better keep a sharp eye out. There’s no telling what these assholes might do.”

  “Roger that.”

  I looked out at the water and saw that it was almost dark, which meant that we had just enough light to get to our destination. It would be pitch black on our return, but, fortunately for us, I had my wrist mounted GPS and had already programmed in the Sozo’s coordinates. We started our Jet Skis then idled away from the Sozo, and I waved to my compatriots and nodded, thus signaling it was time to haul ass. We hit the gas, and the abrupt acceleration nearly sent Babs flying straight off the back, but, a last minute grab for Corn’s waist kept him from falling into the water. In seconds the three of us were racing along at a little over sixty miles per hour in the dying light of the day, and Corn looked over and smiled—the moment feeling a bit like old times, give or take about fifty pounds and the addition of the swishy French monkey on his back.

  The water was unusually calm, and up ahead we could just make out the opening to Carthage’s ancient military harbor. Historically, it was only accessible via the mercantile harbor that sat just to the east, but over the last thousand years its wheel shape had been partially filled in and a direct opening made to the sea. In its heyday around 400 BC, however, this place would have been quite a site with the harbor being a perfect circle and the center island filled with the more than three hundred warships of the Carthaginian Navy—a force created to protect their trading empire and its settlements, especially the city of Carthage which had become the commercial center of the western Mediterranean region. Now, the harbor was kind of hook shaped and housed only a number of small pleasure and fishing vessels that were docked on its crumbling shores.

  We continued along and our destination was now close enough that I cued my radio and spoke to Corn and Babs.

  “I’m thinking a couple of Jet Skis at this hour might look suspicious, so we should go in with a good head of steam, then cut the engines and drift in silently the rest of the way.”

  “Good plan,” Corn said.

  The sun was setting as we approached the harbor inlet, and the lights of the homes on the surrounding hills were coming alive and twinkling in the growing darkness. Beyond them and sitting atop the hill was the most visible landmark, the Saint Louis Cathedral, or, as it was currently called, the Acropolium, a Byzantine style former church that was now used to host cultural events. We throttled up, delivering a brief burst of speed, before cutting the engines and coasting through the thin opening and into the harbor. To our immediate left was the center island, still littered with the crumbling ruins of its ancient glory, while ahead and to the right were the homes that encircled the small bay. We reached the shallows and slipped off the sides of the Jet Skis and quietly hauled them up onto the rocky beach.

  Our insertion point was on the northern shore with our destination just across the small road that skirted the edge of the harbor. I took a quick look over at the residence and was a bit concerned to find that the walls were at least ten feet high.
Wonderful. Suddenly, headlights came from around the curve, and we all ducked down to stay out of view. Once the car was gone, we went back to work, grabbing our gear and forming up behind the short concrete barrier that bordered the highway. I raised my head up just high enough to scan the property line then looked for sentries and entrance points. The entrances were easy to find, as both were on the left side and comprised a small wooden gate for people and a large one for cars. A small flash of light brought my attention to the other end of the property, where I spied a lone man lighting up a cigarette.

  “Only one sentry on the perimeter that I can see,” I said.

  “Tag and bag?” Corn asked.

  “Yeah, maybe, but let’s see what he does after he finishes his cigarette. Maybe he’ll head back inside, and we can follow him through the gate.”

  The three of us waited while Smokey stood there, puffing away like a little chimney, the acrid smell of his cigarette blowing directly across the road and straight into our faces. Lovely. I was so sensitive to cigarette smoke that it even bothered me when someone was smoking in the car driving in front of me. That meant that the longer I sat there smelling Smokey’s cigarette, the more aggravated I was becoming, and I realized I would especially enjoy taking the fucker down. He finally took his last puff, tossed the butt on the ground, then stubbed it out with his foot. This also showed that he was a litterbug which was strike two in my book. We waited, but he stayed in place, so it would appear that his job was to keep watch outside the compound.

  “OK, let’s go take care of Smokey,” I said.

  “How do you want to do it?” Corn asked.

  “I say we walk right up to him.”

  “Won’t he be a little suspicious with the three of us wearing wetsuits and carrying weapons?”

  “Yeah, so lets leave the weapons here for now.”

  “I think that’s a terrible idea.”

  “Me too,” Babs added.

  “If we go over there with guns he’ll be more likely to pull out his own gun and start shooting. For Letizia’s sake we can’t risk that happening, so just follow my lead.”