OPERATION BACKFIRE
The risk–return tradeoff is the relationship between the amount of return gained on an investment and the amount of risk undertaken in that investment. The more return sought, the more risk that must be undertaken.At the same time, higher risk also means higher potential losses on an investment, especially in the short term.
Most of us have a healthy understanding of risk in the short term.
When crossing the street, for example, most people would no doubt speed up to avoid an oncoming car that suddenly rounds the corner.
Those very same people probably will not chance high long-term risks for meager short-term gains. Most people. Naturally, there are others who follow the saying, "Sometimes you just need to take the leap and build your wings on the way down."
That kind of philosophy is as safe as flying too close to the sun with wings made of feathers glued together with wax.
Ask Icarus how that turned out.
Author's warning: this story contains a great deal of Melissa Mao. An unbridled Melissa Mao. Just so you know that….
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Tuatha de Danaan was still the world's most advanced submarine. Flagship of the rebuilt Mithril, it is classified as an Assault Landing Submarine and houses a variety of AS, aircraft and other small vehicles.
In addition to a revolutionary hull design, the Danaan, which started life as a discarded Soviet submarine, much the way the Chinese aircraft carrier Liaoning started life as the Russian heavy aircraft-carrying cruiser Riga. The TDD-1 makes use of an extremely sophisticated Artificial Intelligence called Dana. And, it once had been the only boat in the world to employ even more miraculous machinery, a TAROS, for Whispered use. The area of the boat called the Lady Chapel no longer held the Transfer And Response Omni-Sphere. It was now the home of a top secret safe, one protecting global launch codes, special research data, and the world's most valuable vaccines.
There was something that a certain someone held very dear, certainly more important than the work of eggheads or cures for the sick. That something did not belong in the safe, but had been secreted inside, just the same. It should have been safe. Yes, it should have been safe in the safe. Only Captain Teletha Testarossa and Commander John Philip Holland knew the combination. One knew the first seven digits, and the other the final seven.
Truth drugs, injected into victims, or hidden in food or drink, rarely have the effect shown in movies. But, that was not true of special serums described by Black Technology. They always work.
Almost anything can be found on the Dark Web.
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It was not uncommon for emergency meetings to be held aboard D a Danaan.
The location of the meetings depends on purpose, timing, and space available. The wardroom was often used for meetings with a largish number of officers or enlisted types tasked with Black Technology aspects of the submarine and its missions. The Officer Study was common for the next tier down in size of meetings. If the meeting was because somebody fucked up, the Navigation Center was often used if the ship was in port; it was a bit less cramped than the wardroom, and much larger than the stateroom. With the door shut and cycled, no one could hear and shouting outside that area.
This meeting was held in the wardroom, without the knowledge of the two highest ranking ship officers. Lieutenant Commander Melissa Mao presided, collapsible pointer in hand. She was the current head of the Special Response Team, or SRT. A lot of changes had occurred following the final attack of Amalgam on the former Merida Island, many because of deaths, and others because of retirements or relocations.
The Tactical Division of Mithril is the physical muscle of Mithril, carrying out surgical strikes to halt or help abate regional conflicts. The Tactical division is further divided into five fleets, the North Atlantic Fleet, the South Atlantic Fleet, the Indian Ocean Fleet, the Mediterranean Sea Fleet and the West Pacific Fleet. The head of the Tactical Division was now Admiral Richard Mardukas. The huge jump in rank was testament to just how few talented men survived the Amalgam purge. He had promoted Mao, just as she had moved Sousuke Sagara into her old spot.
The Intelligence Division of Mithril handles the intelligence and counterintelligence duties within the organization. The division is highly independent of the two other divisions, maintaining a higher level of secrecy within the already secretive organization. The division operates an impressive amount of assets, including military satellites, advanced computer equipment, and personnel within other organizations. The head of Intelligence was now General Belfangan Clouseau, a surprise choice, since most observers had expected him to move higher up in the Tactical Division. Political reasons may have been at the root of that decision. There were some in Mithril,,, and some amongst Mithril's benefactors… that wanted to see a lesser amount of friction between the Tactical and Intelligence Divisions.
The Research Division develops advanced Black Technology devices from the knowledge gleaned from the Whispered. Their work was more important, not less, now that there were no more Whispered, per se. Ex-Whispered yes. Whispered or Whisperer, no. The head of Research was Sarah Miller, the erstwhile Whispered that Sousuke had rescued prior to being assigned to Kaname Chidori. She had built the ARX-8 Laevatein with Al's help, and had crafted the Fairy's Feather from design specs provided by Kaname.
Yes. Many things had changed. But, the more that things change, the more they stay the same.
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"Dim the lights," Mao called out. Her order was immediately followed. "Turn on the projector." A beam of high intensity light bathed the white wall of the room. The ultramodern tactical screens were one of the systems being replaced during the current repair cycle and dry dock.
"First image!" Mao slapped the pointer against her shapely but well-muscled calf. The image of an erupting volcano filled much of the wall. It was Puyehue-Cordón Caulle, Chile, 2011. "Cue sound effects." A loud roar with intermittent explosions rang out. "What you see here is a fucking Natural Disaster. But his shit is nothing, compared to the crap that happened last night. I'm ready to fucking explode myself. Someone-""
"Will this be a rescue mission, then Lieu-" The fuzzy cheeked greenhorn, a new member of the hangar support crew, made a serious mistake. He spoke before the speaker had finished speaking. He had actually thought that the Lieutenant Colonel was going to brief them on a natural disaster. The speaker was a natural disaster. He would have been safer pissing off a hurricane or tornado single-handed.
A deathly calm Mao stepped out from behind the lectern… stepped down from the podium… walked over to the naive crewman… and shouted "Were you born a fat, slimy, scumbag puke piece of shit, sailor, or did you have to work on it?" She pivoted. "Someone kick this shit stain's ass. I'm too busy now." She returned to her place of origin. Without turning around, she put a hand to her ear. The room was dead quiet. "I don't hear any ass-kicking. Does that mean we have some brave and strong volunteers willing to take his place? You dick-wipes better square your ass away and start shitting me Tiffany cufflinks or I will definitely f-ck you up!""
When loud thuds and muffled yelps replaced the silence, Mao turned around and spoke like a fire and brimstone preacher at a backwoods pulpit. "Next image!" An image of the Grim Reaper replaced the volcano. "A proverb says: Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy." Slamming her hand down hard on the slanted top of the lectern. "Mercy my ass! Last night, someone committed one of the gravest of Sins." She snapped her fingers. The next image appeared. A grave.
Mao was not a practicing Christian, so she was not making reference to Unforgiveable Sins, those that will not be pardoned by God, namely those involving blasphemy against the Holy Spirit. Included amongst those misdeeds are Despair, believing that one's evil is beyond God's forgiveness; Presumption, hope of salvation without keeping the Commandments; Envying of Goodness, meaning sadness at another's growth in virtue and perfection; Obstinacy in sin, willful persisting in wickedness after sufficient instructions and admonition; Final Impenitence, dying without either confession or contrition for our sins; and Impugning the known truth, arguing against known points of faith, and misrepresenting parts of the Christian faith to make it seem undesirable.
Neither was the angry soldier Muslim, so she was not speaking of the seven sins that doom a person to hell. She was not aware that Shirk… polytheism… was the greatest of sins. She did not know that the second sin, Witchcraft, was a type of Shirk, since it meant worshipping jinn instead of Allah. The third sin was killing a soul that Allah has forbidden one to kill. The fourth sin was essentially usury, and the final sins included consuming the wealth of orphans, fleeing from the battlefield, and slandering chaste, innocent believing women.
Nor was the Chinese-American woman a member of the Jewish faith. The sin was not one.of the big three mitzvahs a Jew is expected to give his life for rather than transgress: murder; worship of other gods; and forbidden sexual relations. The precise nature of the sin in question was made clear with the next image.
Mao snapped her finger again. Nothing happened. Scowling, she snapped twice more. Still no change in images. "I see… someone must have something stuck in his ear." She extended the pointer to its fullest length. "I can help them with that problem." She pushed the pointer against her ear, making it seem like she was ramming it in instead of collapsing it. With slight of hand, she made the expanding pointer look like it was exiting the opposite ear. "Shit… I don't want to get this fucking thing dirty." Taking out her sidearm, she fired two rubber bullets. That had weaker souls diving for the floor. "If the noise won't work, the bullets fucking will!"
The next image appeared. It was a six pack of beer. But not just any beer.
"This was kept where no one could possibly steel it." Mao's voice practically dripped venom. "And even if it could be stolen, only the most skilled thief… or the luckiest man… would even venture an attempt. We are dealing with neither here. We are dealing with a dead man walking."
"A zombie?" One of the trainees spoke up unwisely.
"Why aren't you cute," Mao hissed. She walked back off the podium. "Your mother must really love you." The mop-topped young man nodded, vouchsafing a smile. "I'm… not… your… fucking… mother…" She then said "Kick this-"and stopped. She shook her head. For expediency's sake, she shot the man in the belly. She was shooting high again. "As for your mother…It looks to me like the best part of you ran down the crack of her ass and ended up as a brown stain on the mattress."
Not a single crew member made a move to help the injured man. Helping the injured just created more injured.
"Anything else?" Mao had her hands on her hips. She surveyed the room. "Any more questions. Don't worry. An officer always keeps her word. I promise I won't hurt you."
A hand went up.
"Yes?" Mao smiled a sickly-sweet smile. 'There's a sucker born every minute.' That phrase is closely associated with P. T. Barnum, an American showman of the mid-19th century, although there is no evidence that he actually said it.
"Why are we holding this meeting?" The old balding machinist would have known better, if he had not been transferred over from Australia only a couple of days earlier. "I mean… it's just beer." He cringed when Mao took her gun back out of the holster. "You said you're weren't going to hurt me!"
"I won't." Mao handed the weapon to the victim of the prior ass-kicking. "Want to get off my fucking shit list, newbie?" When the crewman blinked his un-swollen eye and said 'Yesh,' the head of SRT said "You shoot him," pointing to the other man's crotch."
A gunshot rang out. The first shot missed. Mao caught the rebounding rubber slug without even looking. The second shot was followed by a girlish shriek. The base choir would have a new Soprano.
"Who knows what No-Nut's biggest mistake was?" Mao shook her head when a fellow officer asked if he could escort the unlucky souls to the Sick Bay. "No. Wun Hung Lo stays here. Any one? What was his mistake?"
"It's not just any beer," a clever cook guessed.
"Right!" Mao walked over and slapped the cook on the back. "Good answer. I like you. Here-" She tossed him a controller. "You get to run the projection system now."
"Sir, yes Sir!" The first words on his lips were 'But I'm a cook, Sir.' He wisely swallowed that reply. "I will project with the best of my ability, Sir! You can count on me, Sir!"
"Asshole," with her precious beer gone, Mao wasn't going to be happy with anyone. At least, not until her current mission planning was finished, and the different plans were all put into action. "Don't be a fucking pansy ass suck up!" She smiled a shark-like smile. "Next image."
A single beer bottle was shown. A brown bottle, regular in shape. A beige label, not terribly decorative. The large word CITRA was spelled with mosaic like green splotches. It sat above a curly banner with the words 'Double IPA' superimposed.
"Each year Kern River Brewing Company, out of Kernville… California… California, USA for all of you fucktards who don't know where fucking California is… releases an extremely limited supply of their coveted Citra Double IPA." Mao slapped the pointer hard against her leg again, hard enough to raise welts. She didn't notice. She was getting into it. "Hazy pale in color, with a strong pungent aroma that comes from large amounts of Citra hops, this nectar of the gods is consistently ranked as one of the premiere hop-heavy ales on the planet." She pointed over to a young woman with incredibly thick eyeglasses. "Data Girl, what's the beer's current rating on Beer Advocate?" Obviously, Data Girl was neither the woman's name nor her exact job title.
"Checking- The woman's voice almost seemed robotic. Her long elegant fingers flowed across a laptop keyboard. She was clearly a maestro. "As of today's date, the beer is listed as World Class, with a BA score of 4.56 out of 5."
"What's the ranking?" Mao asked, eyes fixated on the image of the beer bottle. An optical illusion, she seemed to grow in stature. Waves of chi emanated from her body. There was a palpable image of drama in the room, with the transfixed crew looking at her the way a mongoose looks at a cobra. No, the way that baby mongooses look at a hungry adult cobra.
"Number 85," the Intelligence officer replied, calm against the raging storm of sweat-drops. "Based on a total 407 reviews and 1,792 ratings."
"MOTHERFUCK!" Mao dropped her pointer and whipped out a nasty looking dagger. With a movement too fast to see, she drove the weapon deep into the lectern. "Are they fucking letting fucking monkeys drink the beer and write fucking reviews?!" She kicked the podium over. "Data girl, read me a review with a low rating."
"As I sip I am jolted from a dream - is this real? Am I?" The Intelligence officer's voice was melodic. She did not smirk or giggle as she read the rather expressive review. "First textures are lush and grassy like Warren Beatty trying to woo Natalie Wood. Unfortunately, what comes after it is not Disneyland every night at 9:30 PM - no fireworks. I'm missing that extra hoorah! I'm missing that extra zoom zoom in the boom boom! It's nice and clean, but then like my 4th ex, it's kind of one dimensional. It's ok, but because of the hype going into it, I kind of haz a sad."
Some in the room snickered.
"Do we find that funny?" Mao looked like a demon fresh out of an ancient Chinese myth. "
The entire room erupted with a "No Sir!"
"What?!" Mao smiled. It was the kind of smile that could cause a seasoned U.S. Marine crap his pants. "I can't hear you."
"NO SIR!" The response was so loud that it hurt many an ear.
"The way that Mamma taught her babies!" Mao said.
"FUCKING NO SIR!" Somehow the tide had miraculously turned. No one was scared any more. They had a gleam of fire in their eyes. They looked like a group of men and women who would follow Mao into Hell and back, just to light her cigarette in an infernal firepit.
"Outstanding!" Mao retrieved her dagger by stomping the beleaguered lectern into scrap wood. "It's lucky for that pig-fucking reviewer that we don't have the time to track him down and give him a good monkey stomp! I'd like to shove a pineapple up his boom boom and give his bowels a little zoom zoom." She was referring to the grenade, not the fruit. "Where the fuck was I?"
"Each year Kern River Brewing Company, out of Kernville… California… California, USA for all you fucktards who don't know where fucking California is… releases an extremely limited supply of their coveted Citra Double IPA," The Intelligence officer replied smoothly. Those words seemed almost antiseptic in her pleasant voice.
"Right!" Mao folded her arms across her chest and spoke in well metered way. Having birthed a sense of excitement in her gathered group, she didn't want the buzz to burn out too soon. She would work things crescendo decrescendo. She was a master at her craft. "From Kernville, the beer rarely makes it down to Los Angeles, and barely lasts longer than a few scant hours when it does. But… once a year…KRBC holds a special lottery, with beer lovers from around the world vying to have a chance to buy six twenty-two ounce bottle of that golden libation."
"Heaven…." The Australian machinist had drunk the Kool Aid, so to speak. His pain forgotten, he stared slack jawed at the projected image.
"There's only one winner, for a beer that folks regularly line up for several hours to sample." Mao smiled when a number of crew members gasped. "Right! And you can only enter the contest once! Anybody trying to game the system gets banned from the sweepstakes." People in the room booed. "I won!" The room erupted into cheers. People clapped their hands and stomped their feet, as if they were at a college football game or a village soccer match.
"Oorah!" A former jarhead saluted the image.
"There's more!" Mao's remark quieted the room. "The winner had to make their way to the Kernville brew pub in person… in a two week window… a two and a half hour drive up from L.A." She hooked a thumb into her belt loop and spoke in a hushed voice. "If you didn't make it there in time… the bottles would be forfeit… and the brew pub would keep the money." Her voice grew louder and more emotional. "During my last leave I flew to the States." Her cadence had everyone respond:
"She flew to the States!"
"And I drove the fucking Rent-a-Wreck up the fucking road!" Mao's voice was louder still.
"She drove the fucking Wreck up the road!"
"And I paid my fucking money and I picked up my fucking beer." Mao's voice rang out across the room.
"She paid fucking money and picked up the beer!"
Mao chuckled. She had them all in the palm of her hand. She put a finger to her lip, signaling for an end to the call and response. "I brought the beer back here safely. I locked it safely away. And when I came to get it, it was fucking gone." She paused purposefully. The silence grew loud in everyone's ears. "And someone will pay!" She held up a closed fist. When she opened it, the crowd was able to vocalize again. The din was worse than an Indy Speedway.
There's always one in a crowd, or one in a family. A former farm boy turned aircraft mechanic raised his hand. The room grew noticeably quieter.
"Yes?" Mao's voice had the effect of fingers scraped down a chalkboard.
"I may be missing something here," the man said, tugging at a thread hanging loose from his filthy coveralls. "But don't we have beer for sale at the base cantina?" He was a whisky man himself.
"Aviation Chief's Machinist's Mate-"Mao was asking for the mechanic's name.
"Veggeman," the mechanic answered.
"How tall are you Veggie Man?" Mao glowered at the man,
"Five foot nine, Sir" the mechanic replied.
"Five foot nine," Mao spat out. "I didn't know they stacked shit that high! Everyone. Aviation Chief's Machinist's Mate Veggie Man has volunteered to be our practice partner later." Mao's words suggested a rather ominous future. No one offered their condolences to the man. No one knew if there would be more than one 'volunteer.' She moved on to the next part of the briefing. "Data girl!"
The Intelligence officer accessed a crew file and projected it up on the wall. There was a face. There were factoids and personal information.
"The enemy's name is Kurz Weber. Rank Sergeant." Mao spoke from habit and military protocol. She knew that almost everyone in the room was quite cognizant of who Kurz was. "Alias Kalius. Shit, that almost rhymes and I hate fucking rhymes." She fought the urge to spit. "Date of birth April 1, 1982. German and Japanese descent, mother and father deceased by assassination. Call sign Urzu Six. ID number B-3127. Voice sounds a lot like Shin-ichiro Miki or Vic Mignogna. Six foot tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes. For the ladies present, he is likely a sexual deviant." That last part wasn't true and was not depicted on the projected data. Mao was simply tired with putting up with Weber's blatant sexual harassment. "I suggest you steer clear at all cost." She made a gesture with her hand.
Trainees who were assigned to the SRT for their internship stood up and began distributing sealed Manilla envelopes to everyone assembled in the room. Each envelope had a crewmember's name stamped on it, and a hand-written pair of words, staring with the word 'Operation.'
"Team leaders will now describe operations. Each of you maggots will listen to your own missions, understanding things down to the smallest detail." Mao's voice snapped like a flag on a particularly windy day. "You will listen to every other mission, memorizing those details, too. If the need arises, you may be switched to another team. Do you understand me?"
"Sir, yes Sir!" The crew members called out. One after another, speakers walked to the front of the room and used laser pointers to mark Power Point projections.
"Operation Postmaster," a short man with an enormous moustache said. "The title is not in reference to a British special operation conducted on the Spanish island of Fernando Po, now known as Bioko, off West Africa in the Gulf of Guinea, during the Second World War. That mission was carried out by the Small Scale Raiding Force and the Special Operations Executive in January 1942. Their objective was to board the Italian and German ships in the harbour and sail them to Lagos. The SSRF under the command of Major Gus March-Phillipps left Britain in August 1941 and-"
The sound of a pistol shot was followed by all too familiar sound of a ricocheting rubber bullet.
"My apologies, Sir!" The moustache man coughed and said "The name simply fits. We have enlisted the aid of women in the base media center and mail room. They will provide you with old copies of TAG magazine. Some of you will be tasked with carefully cropping digital images of Sergeant Weber from scans of those magazines. Others will be directed to Photo Shop the captured images onto other images in various Male Bondage and Boy Love publications. I will drop off the results back at the media center, and the fruits of our labor will be mailed worldwide and sent to every corner of the internet.
Next, that man returned to his seat, to be replaced by a stubby matronly woman with wire rim glasses and a prosthetic leg. "Operation Cornflakes," she said. She could have followed suit and said that Operation Cornflakes was a World War II Morale Operation that involved tricking the German postal service, Deutsche Reichspost, into inadvertently delivering anti-Nazi propaganda to German citizens through the mail. She also could have said that the name might therefore be a better fit for the previously described mission, because of the similar natures of both plans.
Wisely, she said instead "The mission is simple but subtle. It will not be successful if you are not entirely secretive. It will require perfect timing, and you will need to provide suitable distractions that do not raise suspicion in the target. Plainly put, whenever you can, piss in Sergeant Weber's breakfast cereal… defecate in his meat suppers … make his gustatory endeavors a living nightmare in any and every manner imaginable."
The third speaker was a tall young man whose droopy and tangled hair looked like it had been cut from a mop. That hairdo would never have cut it in an official Navy. "Operation Fork is a sister operation to Operation Cornflakes." In WWII, Operation Fork was the invasion of Iceland conducted by the Royal Navy and Royal Marines. The invasion was performed because the British government feared that the island would be used by the Germans, who had recently overrun Denmark, Iceland's possessing country. "Forks… and all other utensils, plates, and glasses… made available for Sergeant Weber's use… need to be sequestered so that he will definitely use them, and other people aboard Da Danaan will not. Those sundry items will be washed in the Men's and Women's rest rooms prior to delivery to the Mess area. By washing, I actually mean dirtying in unflushed urinals, bidets, and toilets."
"I will take personal lead of Operation Backfire," Mao stated. In the Big War, Operation Backfire was part of the Allies' scramble to acquire German technology. With the consent of U.S. General Dwight D. Eisenhower, the operation was orchestrated by the Rocket Section of the Research and Development branch of the Ordnance Office. During the war, German rocket specialists who had built the V-2 were questioned, and later after the war, were directed to fire off three or four rockets from launch pads near Cuxhaven, Germany, in order to demonstrate the weapon to Allied personnel. The Americans and British were able to share information and had access to rocket parts for their own studies before the Russians could gain access to either. "The choice in names is perfect. Someone stole my fucking beer. His actions will fucking backfire."
Mao then told everyone to clean up shop in the Ward Room and to double-time off of the boat and to make their way over to the base gymnasium. She would continue discussions there, going over more mission details. Before they left the room, she admonished them all, stating a cruel but obvious reality:
"I know I don't have to say this but will do so any way." She sounded as if she could chew steel and spit tacks. "We keep this secret from the higher ups. Any one squeals, and they become the next target."
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Melissa Mao, born to Chinese-American parents on May 11, 1976 in New York City, was brought up under strict Chinese traditions. That that included, unbeknownst to her, an arranged marriage. When she had enough, she left home and immediately joined up with the United States Marine Corps, carrying a large chip on her shoulder when she entered the recruitment office while still dressed in a wedding gown. After several years of service, she was eventually given a dishonorable discharge, another source of her perpetual bad attitude. To make things even worse, she had a Father Complex, having bitter feeling for her sire, who had been in the United States Air Force. Yes, she had so many reasons to be one big bundle of joy. And, being one big bundle of joy, she was going to enjoy everything that happened next.
The assembled task force stood at the athletic facilities at the Uryd archipelago, one of Mithril's new bases of operation after the destruction of Merida Island. They were all dressed in their PE gear, standing at attention. All except for a pale looking Aviation Chief's Machinist's Mate Veggeman. Queasy, he stood at the top of the room, next to Mao.
"Operation Backfire," Melissa said. "Kurz Weber committed the ultimate crime. Because the crime came fucking outside of military law, the punishment will also fucking be outside of military law. We will reach back to High School Law. No, maybe further back to Junior High and middle school law. Some might call this all-time favorite a prank. Others might call it bullying. I call it justice!"
Everyone waited in anticipation. Their curiosity was piqued further, when a currier entered the room and dropped off a large package. Mao signed for the delivery and ordered Veggeman to open the package, to see 'What Santa had left for him.' It was a large stack of BVDs.
"BVD does not stand for Bovine Viral Diarrhea. That is Aviation Chief's Machinist's Mate Veggeman's new name." No one in the crowd snickered. Mao continued. "BVD stands for Bradley, Voohees, and Day, if anyone gives a flying fuck… and I know that I sure as shit don't. It was once its own brand of underwear, now produced by Fruit of the fucking Loom. These will be our weapon of choice." She pointed to the underwear packages. "Chief Petty Officer Croker."
A gray-haired man, who looked like muscle piled on muscle topped off by muscle, walked to the top of the room. The sailor had been a U.S. Navy drill instructor and had spent time as the Athletics Director at a large American University. "You may all think you know this maneuver. But you are all babies in my eyes… no, less than fucking fetuses. But, I like babies. I like fetuses. So, I will teach you to be men and women. When you leave here today, you will be masters…." He looked over at Mao, to see if she wanted to drop the bomb. She shook her head. He had the honor. He had earned it. "… of the Wedgie."
"Blrtttt—" Someone tried unsuccessfully to stifle a laugh.
"Everyone who is not that sister-licking sonofabitch take a big step back!" The Petty Officer's voice was louder and even more razor sharp than Mao's, if that was possible. Mao nodded in rapt approval. "You… big ears… get up here next to Vegemite!"
With the remainder of the crewmen staring at him, a quirky Norwegian made his way forward. He stood next to the Machinist's Mate.
"So… what was I saying," the Chief Petty Officer asked, seeing if he could turn the entire room full of people into practice partners if everyone failed to give the correct answer. Lucky for them, a majority called out 'Wedgies, Chief Petty Officer!"
"Outstanding!" Croker beamed like a proud farther. "What a fine family you have raised, Lieutenant Commander Mao!" He turned to glower at Veggeman. "Vegemite… two steps forward… turn to face the wall." It was time for the nonverbal demonstration. The older man reached down into the Machinist Mate's drawers… grabbed ahold of his underwear… and pulled upward as if his life depended on it. There was a horrendous cry from the man, and a tortured tear from the cloth. The older man held his hand up. A piece of white material hung there, like a surrender flag. "You need a new set of BVDs," he told the man, pointing at the stack. When the man did not move, he shouted "Are you quitting on me? Well, are you? Then quit, you slimy fucking walrus-looking piece of shit! Get the fuck off of your knees. Get the f-ck down off that floor! NOW! MOVE IT! Or I'm going to rip your balls off, so you cannot contaminate the rest of the world! I will motivate you, Machinist's Mate… EVEN IF IT SHORT-DICKS EVERY CANNIBAL ON THE CONGO!"
"Old school," Mao said to herself. "I love it." She didn't realize just how much she sounded like Gates or Gauron then.
"You there… Aviation Boatswain's Mate… what's your name," the Chief Petty Officer addressed the Norwegian crew member, who gazed in horror at Veggemen, who had slid on another pair of BVDs..
"B-BB-BBB-Brynjolv Baardson, Chief Petty Officer."
"Well well well," Croker said. "That's quite a mouthful. Well, you're next in line to get quite an assful. Do you find that funny too, sailor?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead. He began his instruction. "As many of you worms might recall, in school, the wedgie… sometimes referred to as a gotchie or a grundy… is often performed by the cool kids in their boxers on the nerds in their briefs and tighty whities." A fair number of people nodded their heads unconsciously, trying to wish away old memories. "Sometimes the most effective weapon at hand is the simplest and most opportune one. A rock in the Stone Age. A barstool or the back of a hand in a barfight. What could be simpler than forcibly pulling a person's underwear upwards from the back?"
No one answered. No one was supposed to. That should have been an unspoken and unbreakable rule. Maybe the Chief Petty Officer just did not seem to the monster that Mao was. Maybe someone had a short memory. Or, maybe it was the riskiest character trait of all, a good heart. No, it was the right thing at the wrong time: a conscience and a sense of duty.
When Croker turned and walked towards the Boatswain's Mate, a ship's nurse spoke up. "A wedgie is simple," he said. "But it's the forceful part we should be concerned about." The flag sewn on his sleeve was the flag of Peru. "Wedgies, when performed on males, can be dangerous, potentially causing testicular or scrotal damage. An incident a decade ago involving a ten-year-old boy required reattachment of a testicle to the scrotum." That had been his cousin.
"And… well…" Emboldened by the Peruvian humanitarian entreaty, a radio operator chimed in. She wore the Swiss flag. "Why exactly do we need to use actual people." She pointed to the back of the room. A large number of MMA and Brazilian Jujutsu grappling dummies were standing in a corner of the gymnasium. "We could put underwear on those… and there would be more to practice on."
"More to practice on… I see…" The Chief Petty Officer said that in a very scary way. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He was a very thoughtful man. "Lieutenant Commander, do you want this one?"
"Thank you, Chief Petty Officer," Mao returned. "I do believe I will." She interlaced her fingers and cracked her knuckles. "So… you two bleeding hearts want that Norwegian Fittetryne to be happy, huh?" Mao was multilingual when it came to profanity. Her voice was deceptively soft, just like a volcano prior to eruption. That changed in an instant:
To the Peruvian, she said "Cabro! Reconche tu mare weon! Chupame el poto !" Grabbing him by the collar, she lifted him slightly of the floor. "I bet I know how to make you happy. I'll ask the base veterinarian to get you a pretty llama to fuck!" She threw him to the ground. ""No. You're a male nurse." She somehow made that sound like a veritable perversion of the natural order. "So, I will get a big handsome llama to fuck you. And I'll personally buy you a year's work of Vaseline! No no no… after today… I think you might prefer Preparation H." She then spun on the shocked Swiss girl:
"And you, Swiss Miss," the look in her eyes alone had the startled women voiding her bladder on the spot. "What… is this some kind of Hundsverlocheti for you, leibchen?" She picked up a thin training manual someone had left on a nearby folding chair. She rolled it up tight. "How about I make you happy, by shoving this up your vacker ass, turning you into a Swiss Roll!" Vacker? Sure, she messed up Swedish for Swiss on occasion, but few people knew the difference. "Lucky for you, wedgies aren't just for boys anymore!"
"Looks like the Lieutenant Colonel inspired two more volunteers," Croker said. He looked at the crowd. "Any more?" He smiled the kind of smile seen only on evil clowns. There was no answer, so he resumed his oratorial:
"There are a number of variants to the normal, or traditional wedgie. It is impractical to list every variant, as the names and processes can be rather subjective." The Chief Petty Officer swung his arms around in a circle, loosening up. "However, there are a few better-known variants of the wedgie we will discuss. Later, I will encourage the lot of you to come up with your own personal varieties."
The gray-haired sailor first mentioned that the Melvin is a variant where the victim's underwear is pulled up from the front, to cause injury, or, at least, severe pain to the victim's genitals. "For you lovely ladies present, if you were to get one of those, it would be called a Minerva."
He next gave effusive praise to the atomic wedgie, which entailed hoisting the waistband of the receiver's underwear up and over their heads. "The hanging wedgie is a variant of that masterpiece, in which the victim is hung from his or her underwear, elevated above the ground… like from one of those basketball nets…." He motioned across the room. "Or that construction crane outside."
After saying "A Chinese Laundry is when the underwear are torn entirely off," Croker said to Mao, "I mean no disrespect, Sir." After Mao replied 'none taken,' the older man clarified by saying "Another name for that is the Ripper wedgie." He went on to explain that a wedgie in which the attacker jumps up and down to make the underwear wedge harder is known as a sky high wedgie; one where the victim is dragged along the ground by their underwear is a dragging wedgie; one where the victim is wedgied and then spun around is a Flying Dutchman wedgie; and a wedgie where a pole is placed through the leg holes of the victims underwear and spun around is a propeller wedgie.
The Chief Petty Officer stopped. He looked over to Mao, who nodded. It was audience partition time, part one. Verbal contributions. "So… who amongst you precious young men and young women can provide me with other examples." Everyone knew that it is better to give than to receive, so they called out every type of wedgie they knew. After that the gray hair added "And… remember… we are the world." The crew of the Da Danaan, and for the atoll in general, were very much international in nature. More countries were represented than ever before. "So… speak out… honor your countries… tell us what your fine citizens call a wedgie!"
"Calzon Chino," a Mexican sailor offered.
"Cuecão," someone from Brazil said.
"Hosenzieher," that came from a German explosives expert.
"Sparticulo, " was Italian, of course
"Tirage de slip," anything so fancy had to be French.
Ten more men and women called out ten more national words.
"See… if it's known around the whole world… it has to be right!" The Chief Petty officer remarked. "So nothing we do here could be wrong. It will be like a flight of angels… or the Son of God Himself… will be reaching down to do the good Lord's work!"
The assembled sailors and airmen were diligent if nothing else, and practiced until the human dummies were left near comatose. After that, they practiced their new war cry: 'WEDGIE WEBER ON SIGHT.'
Caught up in the spirit of things, some participants thought about having that saying tattooed on some part of their body or another. In the middle of their feeding frenzy, an unexpected visitor showed up, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
It was Sousuke Sagara. "I heard from a groundskeeper that you were all here. Is this meeting relevant to my upcoming mission?"
"Shit!" Mao looked visibly upset. "If Sousuke's back… that means that Kurzie Poo is back, too." If Sagara were to catch wind of what was going on, he would no doubt tattle to Weber and ruin everything. "Gang… grab Sousuke… and gag him!"
The room went dead silent. Even the hidden crickets shut up. Who in their right mind would go against Sousuke? What a dilemma. Defy Mao? Attack Sagara? That's like choosing between the Unstoppable Force and the Immovable Object… both with more than enough skill and tenacity to severely maim or kill them. Mao's next remark sealed the deal:
"Sousuke won't gouge out a man's eyes and puke in his dead skull," the SRT leader offered. "I have. Sousuke won't do anything to seriously injure a comrade." She licked her lips. "You know that I will…."
"I was sent-" Sousuke never had the opportunity to say what he intended to say. As Mao predicted, he did not seriously injure anyone. Then again, a body can take one heck of a whooping before the injury is classified as serious. "Mmmrfffl brfll Wrrfflll." He was left Duck taped to the folding chair. Or was that Duct taped? Either way, a healthy rind of tape encircled his mouth, too.
When Mao called out "Hunt, my children," the rabid crowd ran out. Sousuke was left alone in the gym, with the lights turned out.
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Like it did on most places on the planet, the sun rose over the gleaming white Mithril base that next morning.
Kurz Weber, looking like a jigsaw puzzle put together wrong, limped slowly towards his cabin. He had no ideas about the false images careening around the globe. He hadn't tasted anything funny with his continental style breakfast. And he and hadn't noticed anything strange about his utensils or drinkware.
For certain' he could still remember every twist and jerk of his underwear. He could also painfully recall how some Chief Petty Officer he did not recognized had encouraged his former friends to give him wedgies of every imaginable type… strip him afterwards… and then re-clothe him anew so he could be wedgied again.
"No… I can't remember it all… it kind of blurs together after the thirteenth time." He tried to laugh sarcastically, but thought better of it. Any sudden movement still hurt. "But at least I'm still God's gift to womankind!"
"In your dreams," a familiar voice said. "You won't even be able to show hookers a bad time for quite a while, thanks to me." Mao couldn't help but gloat. Payback's a bitch!
"You?" Kurz had been left clueless regarding the cause of his gang mauling. "I thought that I must have slept with the wrong person's girlfriend, wife, or daughter. Or maybe all three." He actually had made a few mistakes while stationed at the new base.
"No. It was me. All me." Mao laughed. "But it's your own fault, fuck head. You drank my fucking beer! That plan sure backfired!"
"Drank?" Kurz shook his head, golden locks flowing to partially cover his baby blue eyes. He pushed the hair aside and gave Mao one of his best modelling poses. "No. Stole, yes. Stole and stashed in your own quarters under your own bed." He knew that she would never find anything there. She hadn't been on the base a year yet, and the trash under her bed was thicker than Sargasso seaweed. He had crawled out from under the bed wondering if she should get a shot for Tetanus or Distemper. "But you must know that… I sent Sousuke to tell you while I was debriefed." He grimaced, having had way too much to do with briefs.
"-" Mao was speechless for once. She had left Sousuke taped up at the athletics building, a 'Closed For Repairs' sign hanging from the door. She was sure he'd be alright. Someone would stumble over him and set him free.
"You've been acting like a stuck-up bitch ever since the promotion," Kurz claimed. "And when you told Sousuke to get Tessa drunk and fuck her, after hearing he had been trying to get right with Kaname after a big spat…." He sighed. That had really pissed him off, even though Sousuke naturally did not do what his fellow soldier said. Tessa and Kaname were both his friends.
"That-" Mao looked troubled. "That was just a joke!" It had been a joke. But, as Sousuke's friend, she should have given him a pep talk instead. Sure, she would have told him to just go fuck Kaname finally, if they did have that heart to heart. But, that was neither here nor there.
"Hah hah," Kurz replied. "Jokes are so much fun, aren't they?" Truth be told, he was the last one to make any comment about thoughtless jokes and pranks. "I like jokes, too." He took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket. The edges looked like they were gilded, or at the least painted to look like the real thing. Without opening up the paper, he tore it into small pieces and threw it into the air like confetti. Just to be safe, he quickly swept a few pieces out of the air and placed them back in his pants, in case the ticket was still valid if pieced back together.
"I should fucking throw you ass in the brig for littering," Mao said sourly. She looked like she was still waiting for a punchline.
"I'd probably be safer there," Kurz remarked. "Let me explain. That was something special I picked up for you while I was gone… an apology for my little trick… and a congrats for your big move up the career ladder."
"What-" Mao stopped. She didn't need to ask. She saw the look in Kurz' eyes. He was dying to tell her. She probably didn't want to know, but could at least make him wait.
"It was a Golden Ticket." Kurz next explained what that meant. The name had been chosen in homage to Willy Wonka, of course. A wealthy beer aficionado and movie fan had paid for the prizes, a small number of tickets that had been placed in six packs of beer worldwide. The finders of the tickets could get up to six free beers a day… every day… every month for a full year… at some of the best beer houses on the planet.
"-" Mao went silent again. She closed her eyes and pictured an enormous house of cards. Painstakingly built, it blew apart, pieces flying in every direction. Each card was a Joker. Each Joker had the face of Kurz Weber.
"Let's see-" Kurz would enjoy this next part. Each name he named would be like another needle thrusted into a voodoo doll. No, a dagger. "Akkurat in Stockholm… Bakusy Club Popeye in Tokyo… Beerhouse on Long, Cape Town… The Brew Dock, Dublin… Brothers Beer in Auckland, New Zealand… Café Abseits, Baburg Germany… Chez Moeder Lambic in Saint Gilles Belgium… Church Key, Washington D.C… Csak a jó sör in Budapest… Euston Tap in London… La Fine Mousse in Paris… and one of your favorites, The Globe…" That last drinkery was located in Hong Kong.
Kurz turned and walked away. He stopped, turned around, and struck his best runway pose yet again. "Don't you just hate it when an operation backfires?"
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This story owes a great deal to Wikipedia.
Backfire:
Regarding an engine undergoing a mistimed explosion in a cylinder or exhaust.
Or
Of a plan or action rebounding adversely on the originator, having the opposite effect to what was intended.
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BTW: the beer review was quoted verbatim.