Big Guy: (whining) What! I’m not through with my fries and drink!
SSA #1: Sorry, sir. I warned you not to supersize it.
Big Guy: Damn! (whining) What’s the use of being the most powerful man on earth if you can’t eat a simple double cheeseburger special in peace?
SSA #1: Ah . . . I don’t know, sir. But, no one else can get in here until you leave.
Big Guy: Okay. Okay. I’m going. (sighs) Jeez, it wouldn’t be this crowded if there weren’t so many of you guys tagging along.
SSA #1: Well . . . it’s our job, sir. (whining)
Big Guy: Okay, let’s get outta here. Do we have to ride back in the limo?
SSA #1: Of course, sir. We wouldn’t want anyone to bump you off, now would we?
Big Guy: I don’t know. Rumor has it that you guys did for old John F. That true?
SSA #1: Bite your tongue, sir! That’s a filthy lie! The CIA keeps spreading that crap!
Big Guy: Sorry. I didn’t know you guys were so uptight about it.
SSA #1: Uptight? About work that sloppy? If we had done it, the job would have been done a lot neater. And there wouldn’t have been any loose ends.
Big Guy: (laughs nervously) Not very professional, eh?
SSA #1: Here we are, sir. (sound of car door opening) Shall I have the new intern standing by when we get back?
Big Guy: That’s another problem. You guys didn’t pay attention to my requirements again.
SSA #1: Uh-oh. Another dud in the sack, sir? (sound of car door closing)
Big Guy: No. No, she’s fine for that. And she’s very polite to the First Lady when they meet. Doesn’t taunt her or anything. Not like that other one.
SSA #1: Well . . . then what’s the problem, sir? (vehicle noises)
Big Guy: She’s the dumbest ‘battleship’ player I’ve ever met. I love playing ‘battleship’ in the tub, with that neat set old Yeltsin gave me. But she just doesn’t get it.
SSA #1: Sorry, sir. I can see where splashing around in the tub with a naked intern who doesn’t understand ‘battleship’ would be a trial.
Big Guy: Are you being sarcastic? Was that sarcasm I just heard? I’m president of the goddamn United States, you know! I don’t have to put up with that crap!
SSA #1: Yes, sir. No, sir. No sarcasm intended, sir. It was sort of a joke, sir. Like Billy Carter.
Big Guy: (laughs) Okay. I’m good with jokes. You ever hear the one about the nun who . . . .
SSA #1: Sorry to interrupt, sir. Here we are. (sound of door opening)
Big Guy: Hell. Okay. Is that the Secretary of Defense over there?
SSA #1: Yes, sir. I think he wants to see you.
Big Guy: God! It’s probably about some dumb military crap. He’s always ragging on me about that army and navy stuff.
SSA #1: Well, sir, he is the Secretary of Defense. It’s sorta his job.
Big Guy: (sighs) I guess. All right. Two minutes. Then I go play ‘battleship’. Maybe she’s learned something since yesterday.
SecWar: Sorry, sir. This will just take a moment.
Big Guy: Make it short, I’ve got an important staff conference to attend. (muffled laughter)
SecWar: Ah . . . yes, sir. I just wanted to tell you that the ‘Terminate Snake’ operation got off as scheduled. Well . . . only a little behind schedule.
Big Guy: ‘Terminate Snake’ operation. What’s that?
SecWar: Well . . . uh . . . that’s . . . that’s the one we discussed last night, sir. While you were in the . . . ah . . . tub. Sir.
Big Guy: I don’t think I’m gonna like this. The Veep’s involved, isn’t he?
SecWar: Ah . . . well . . . yes, sir.
Big Guy: I remember you yelling some crap through the door last night. I was . . . uh . . . studying some geographical formations at the time. Big ones. What, exactly, did I approve?
SecWar: We . . . uh . . . we . . . that is, you gave the go-ahead to terminate the Snake. Sir.
Big Guy: Terminate. As in ‘kill’?
SecWar: Crudely put. Yes, sir.
Big Guy: (sighs) Am I gonna get in any hot water over this, Mr. Secretary? Special prosecutors? That sort of thing?
SecWar: Ah . . . I don’t . . . um . . .
Big Guy: That’s what I thought. Well, you just reach out with your fancy radio gadgets and call that thing off. Okay? We’re not gonna kill any innocent snakes on my watch. No, sir.
SecWar: (whining) But, sir . . . There’s no such thing as an innocent snake!
Big Guy: Have you been living under a rock somewhere, Mr. Secretary? The second some dead snake turns up on TV . . . no matter what kind of slimeball critter it was . . . the press will make it into something as pure as the driven snow. Especially if my name gets into it.
SecWar: But . . . the Snake, sir.
Big Guy: No, thanks. Call it off. And, for God’s sake, make sure they don’t wound the goddamn thing. Imagine it on TV - face lift, nose job, new boobs . . . well, maybe not new boobs in this case. No, sir. I’ve had my fill of that stuff. Call it off.
SecWar: (quietly) Yes, sir.
Big Guy: Wait until next February. Then see if the Veep or ole Dubya wants to do it. Not me. You got anything else?
SecWar: No, sir. I’ll recall the strike force. Sir.
Big Guy: Damn right. Now. (door opening) I’m going up.
SSA #2: Ah . . . sir. The . . . ah . . . First Lady is coming down.
Big Guy: Damn! Get me outta here! We’ll go in the back way.
SSA #2: (shouting) Gangway! The Big Guy’s coming through! (receding footsteps)
SSA #3: (elevator door opens) Good afternoon, ma’am. Going out?
Herself: Was that worthless husband of mine just here?
SSA #3: Ah . . . I just came on duty, ma’am. I wouldn’t know.
Herself: Sure you did. (mumbles)
SSA #3: What was that, ma’am? Can I be of assistance?
Herself: You just watch yourself, bucko. I’ll be back in a few years. I’ve got a long memory.
SSA #3: (gulps) Ah . . . ma’am . . . the bastard went around the other way. Ma’am.
Herself: That’s better. Wait ‘til I get my hands on that . . . (elevator door shuts)
Special Ops: The Pointy End
Stag was having a bad time. The other members of the team, saving only Red, were all Anglo-Saxon to one degree or another, and all spoke some form of English. Between the laconic uttering of Geg and Cobra’s growling speech, Stag was pretty well left out. His East London street upbringing hadn’t equipped him for conversing in actual English. Attempts to converse with Red didn’t help matters. Stag’s German, as developed during a hitch in Berlin, extended to ordering beer and requesting sexual favors of bargirls.
Joker sometimes tried to converse with Stag, to the satisfaction of neither. It bothered him that the Cockney had become increasingly mono-syllabic – pointing at an object and grunting a single word or simple phrase. On the other hand, Joker was astonished at the flexibility of a fifty word vocabulary. Stag seemed to have picked up those bits of speech needed for survival in the Team’s limited environment. Words and phrases like: “Beer” - “No gravy” - “Supersize it” - “Are those real?” - “I hate peas” - “Wet T-shirt contest!”
Spread out like this, making their way quietly through the jungle, Stag really felt isolated. For the hundredth time, he wondered if he had done the right thing in giving up his thriving medical practice for the dangers of this crack international anti-bad guy team. Of course, he thought, with wry amusement, the pending claims for back child support from the Group of Eleven, as he called them, made it unlikely he would be returning to his beloved London anytime soon. It wouldn’t be so bad if the team needed him more often. His only medical practicing lately came when Mrs. Joker caught her husband fondling the neighbor lady. The black eye and various contusions were pretty routine, but the compound fracture of Joker’s left arm required real skill.
Cobra called a halt. The men automatically faced outward, alternating left and right, and sank down along the trail. Except Geg. Momentarily confused, he faced left, then right, then back to the left, finally slamming into Baltar, eliciting a pained grunt. Off balance, Geg stumbled into a nearby tree, whacked his head savagely, and collapsed into an insensate heap. Skip kicked him lightly a couple of times, with negative response. He motioned to Stag, “Medic! I think Geg’s managed to break his neck.” Stag went forward eagerly. At last he would have a chance to contribute to the overall team anti-bad guy effort. And, since the Irish ninny had knocked himself out, Stag wouldn’t have to try and make small talk.
While Geg was being seen to, Cobra and Joker pored over the map. “I tell you,” said Cobra, “we should be to this bridge by now. We’re not making very good time.”
Joker examined the map, tracing their route carefully. “I don’t know.” He picked the map up and looked at the legend. “Hey! It’s a goddamn real estate company map! What the hell kind of nonsense is this?”
Cobra shrugged. “The DOD map for the area is classified ‘Triple Whammy Top Secret’. I don’t have a ‘Need To Know’ for that. This is the best I could do.”
“Why would a map be classified that high?” asked Joker.
“I don’t know,” replied Cobra. “We better get a move on.” He reached for the map.
“Wait a minute.” Joker opened the map completely. “For pity’s sake! Look at this!”
Baltar and Skip edged in to see what was going on. “Look,” repeated Joker, “North is at the bottom of the map! Who the hell would print a map upside down?”
“What!” Cobra purpled, “Let me see that!” He snatched at the map. Joker held it away, peering intently at their route.
“Cobra, for crying out loud! We’re going the wrong way! We’ve been marching away from the objective for the whole damn time!”
The group of men at the front of the column dissolved into a shouting, stomping, arm-swinging mob. Bits of the map fluttered to the jungle floor. Stag knelt beside the unconscious Irishman, humming a tune. Red sat on a log, watching the commotion. He thought once more of the Garage Sale and wished he had stayed to assist the two blondes with their T-shirts.
A piercing whistle broke through the noise and tumult. The men froze. Joker faced outward, weapon at the ready. Baltar punched him and pointed. “Relax. It’s just Cobra’s cell phone.”
“No it’s not,” said Cobra quietly, “It’s the Recall monitor.”
“Can’t be! They can’t recall us now! Not when we’re this close!” Skip was angry.
“Well,” said Joker, “we really aren’t that close.”
“The hell with that!” exclaimed Baltar. “Ignore it! Throw it away!”
“Can’t,” said Cobra, sadly, “It’s surgically installed.” He patted his ammo belt. “Right behind my belt.”
“Okay,” said Joker, “so what? We go complete the mission. What can they do?”
“Yeah,” agreed Baltar, “None of those pantywaists would dare come after us!”
“Besides,” added Cobra, “there ain’t no way I’m gonna ignore the recall nohow.”
“Ah, man,” said Baltar, “when did you get to be such a lifer?”
“Lifer, my butt,” retorted Cobra, “When that recall sounds, the device also shuts off the blood supply to my . . . ah . . . to my . . . you know . . . to my ‘equipment’.”
The men were stunned. Joker recovered his voice first. “No way! They wouldn’t do that!”
“Yes they would,” said Cobra, getting to his feet. “Throw some water on Geg. Let’s get out of here! I only got about four hours to get to a place to reset this thing.”
On the trip back to the LZ, Red tried to explain what was going on to Stag. Since he had only a glimmering of the situation himself, the effort proved futile. Geg was a constant distraction, what with his singing and humming. Red would have gladly knocked him out again, but then they would have had to carry him. Needless to say, Gun Team Eagle was not a happy group when they finally boarded the C-130.
The grizzled crew chief met them at the ramp. Grinning, he held up a small transmitter with a red button set in one side. “Betcher wants thishere doohickey punched, eh, Sarge?” He pressed the button and Cobra’s groin emitted an audible click. Sagging into one of the troop seats he sat massaging life back into his numb ‘equipment’. Stag and Red guided Geg all the way forward, figuring it was best to avoid the gray-faced sergeant.
Joker patted Cobra on the shoulder. “Now I know I did right to turn down that last promotion.”
Cobra shrugged. “It’s not so bad. As compensation, the device has a small pump in it that increases blood flow when you want.”
Baltar sat down nearby. “How does that work?”
“A little remote control.”
“Damn,” breathed Joker, “Maybe I ought to reconsider. Where do you keep the control?”
“Well . . . ah . . . actually . . . my . . . uh . . . my wife keeps it.” He blushed.
The men considered that piece of information. “I guess that’s not so bad,” ventured Baltar.
“No. No it’s not,” mused Joker. “Who knows better than her . . . ahem.”
“Right,” said Cobra. “We only had one problem with it.” He grinned slyly. “The thing developed a short. Every time the neighbor used his garage door opener, the little pump started.”
“God,” said Joker, “What happened?”
“Well, hell, I figured she was in a playful mood, you know? We had a hell of a time for a few days. Finally, she got made me go in and get if fixed.” He frowned. “Made my neighbor mad too.”
“Your neighbor?” asked Baltar. “What for?”
“He had to buy a new remote for his garage door.”
“You lost me,” said Joker. “Why?”
“Hell, I figured out what was going on right away. I went and stole the damn thing. Kept it handy in the house.” He looked around at the others. “Well - what would you have done?”
