Panama City, Panama
Zechs
still remained glued to the net when the pilot notified passengers to
buckle up for landing, and an item of breaking news deeply concerned
him. Reports were on the slim side, but Preventer HQ issued a notice
in 'Wind's' mailbox about a serious brushfire in Somalia, where
a Preventer taskforce is encountering a situation. Director Une
raised the threat level in the Middle East, the theater in which
Somalia is located, to Defense Condition One, but has not yet raised
the Earth Sphere threat level.
The
Lightning Count probed the roster in the area, and found the usual
suspects were assigned to clean it up.
'I knew about the party over there,' he mused, 'Une must have been working on this assault for sometime, so I'm sure things are under control, but she left me out of the loop, as usual.' He smiled slyly.
'Well,
she must have decided she can rain on my parade by dropping this bomb
on me instead. Sorry, Director, but my vacation is between me and my
still unsuspecting bride.'
He
dropped his mail in his bin, peeked over at his romantic interest,
saw she still slept, and dumped her notice.
"Hey,
it's never wise to base a relationship on dishonesty," whispered
the prisoner, "skeletons always tend to wash up from the sand,
amigo."
Zechs
agreed, in principal, but retorted,
"As an heir of an aristocratic family, you should know the most lasting marriages are based on deceit. What Noin and I have is true love (he blushed), and Une is the modern version of the parent overly concerned with bloodlines and titles. I won't bore you with the details, but the parable works out, and I'm rather fond of it. You see the point, I take it?"
"I
do, but I merely wanted to counsel you away from grief for your own
benefit. I still urge you away from this course."
Zechs
logged off.
"Agreed, but I've already pulled too many strings on this just to let it go at that. You know, you're reasonably smart when you're sober, so how did you get involved in drugs?" Heorot almost bristled at the question.
"Okay, fair enough. I am not involved in that arm of the business, nor do I entertain thoughts of running drugs for Mordred. I'm still a soldier, Zechs. I'm just working for an unsavory employer, that's all. I love my profession and lifestyle too much to give it up, understand? I really can't picture myself doing something more... common, than piloting a mobile-suit as an old Special. I flew a Taurus in the Treize Faction, left Somalia to find Gundams to fight, and operated a Serpent in the Christmas Rebellion. Every time, those kids from space cut my career short, by rooting out my employers. You, I have to ad, are the first to actually defeat me, but I don't mind it so much. Mordred and I, you probably know, have ties as close as you and Treize, you know. We're close cousins, and we spent years at the same ranchero as kids, studied at the same gymnasium, and were friends for all those years. Let me finish. So I'm finished with the second Operation M, and I'm out of my profession again. No fault of my own, I damaged those Gundams, when Mordred pays me a call. He thinks out loud that he's impressed that I broke a Gundam heat shortal with a shot, and also congratulates me on blowing a leg off the White Taurus, and I naturally thank him for the flattery, when he cuts to the chase. He has this up-scaled manned Virgo suit, and he's looking for a pilot who can handle it. Naturally, I take him up on the offer, because he offered me a Gundam! I just can't refuse that, right? So you see, I didn't even think about the drugs, I just wanted the Gundam, you know?"
"Yeah, I hear you, sorry if I insulted your honor," Zechs brushed it aside. The stewardess begins letting people off the plane, and Zechs gently shrugs Noin awake.
"Morning, Beautiful, time to hand our man over to the jailors," he invited, helping her up.
"Sure, Zechs, but only if you keep up the sweet talk." Zechs appeared puzzled.
"What do you mean, Pet, I thought we were talking shop." She didn't know what had gotten into him, but the Count's sudden utility of pet names seemed to promise something really special, and unquestionably welcome.
Maxwell House
"I thank every single one of you for taking timeout from your busy lives to come here in this portion of Africa going through so many difficult changes, so we can unify to say thanks to the divine for delivering us through all our foolish behavior over the years.
"God, we have again and again rejected your gifts to us. You provide us with all the building material we need to live comfortably through your necessary weather patterns, but we time and again refuse to see these items for what they are. When you grant us a surplus of these items in good faith, we often don't reach out and assist others in building the same sanctuaries. Instead, we tend to stop construction of sanctuaries altogether, and we put together instruments that bring misery to those with less fortune than ourselves. Only now are we accepting that our behavior must be mended, and only now are we focusing more on rebuilding your gifts that we destroyed. For many passing years on this rock, in the sky above, and even in the void of space, men have slain each other, willfully creating a condition of misery, and since, most of us only speak out to you for the sake of being forgiven, but now, I have learned from these remarkably hardy people on this continent, that it is essential that we be thankful for the mercy and love you have already given us. We are grateful for the things you've shown us. Amen!"
A massive crowd of greatly diverse people applauded and corroborated the great truth in the prayer of Duo Maxwell. Duo joined the applause, then gestured for everyone to be seated.
Bishop Douglas of Liberia had the honor of carving the turkey, a giant bird raised in Waco, Texas, on the ranch of President Murphy, of the United States. Douglas was a man in his seventies, and a possible Pope in the next few years. He firmly partitioned the bird with a placid face, a sign of potential longevity in his role in the Vatican.
Saucers
loaded with turkey exchanged hands until all hands had meat or a soy
substitute. Other foods moved in the same fashion until everyone had
a meal in compliance to the food pyramid.
Bishop
Douglas led a second prayer, and everyone began to eat. That taken
care of, Duo dropped out of sight, and faded away before anyone
realized he was a hologram.
Streets of
Mogadishu
Nichol
reappeared from his reconnoiter duty, and walked a door to Marquee
Wayridge.
"The
brigand squad is falling back, so we have time to move him," he
addressed the group, particularly Releana, and sprinted to the
derelict old Subaru. He hauled the bodies out, and shifted the old
buggy in gear.
"Put
him in, and we'll drive to Maxwell House," he commanded, and
Releana and Silvia lifted him into the back.
"I'll
take the big gun," Poe declared, climbing into the back. Silvia
administered crude CPR under Sally's medical direction, and
Releana, taking the passenger seat, accepted Sally's
pistol.
The other
four representatives sat in the back, trying to give Silvia and Sally
room to operate.
With
everyone settled in, Nichol raced toward Maxwell House.
A
short distance away, the brigand leader blockaded the
direct routes to the hospital, setting remote mines and easily
ignitable fire trenches on every road.
He
listened to the low rumble of the coming buggy, and waited in
anticipation. The sound grows...and fades, then
disappears.
He's
shocked, and furious. These westerners always think about their
wounded! What do they think they're doing, letting a valuable
western life dissipate like that?
He
fumes, thinking of a contingency plan.
"We
tried, guys, but those imperialists knew what they were doing for
once. No matter, we can move on. We have the airport, and we're
trucking out a royal Lear jet and a fighter today. We're also
salvaging all the booty a western airport is treasured with. So,
we'll just loot all these vulnerable houses and call it a day."
They didn't cheer, but they'll be surprised to learn just how
much they've gained already. Plenty of cars to replace that one
Subaru, the jets, a few ordinary planes lucky enough to survive the
shelling, lots of jet and car fuel in underground containers, and
plenty of delicious western food. Just look at the bright side,
dudes, you'll also find a lot of new trinkets in these
houses!
Nichol
made it through the security gate less than fifteen minutes later. He
shouted at the guards, and one got on the phone to the paramedic
squad, who ran out a red crossed door and received them.
"We
have a medical emergency! He's full of gunshot wounds and needs
desperate attention!" Sally demanded, helping the girls unload
him.
"Roger, we
have him, ma'am," an EMT said, opening his bag, "by the way,
great job you did on him. I'm getting strong readings on the
EKG."
Sally
grunted/laughed.
"Well
thank you, I was a Field Doctor once. Take care of him."
"We
will," he said, and carted Wayridge to the operating room, "I'll
see you in a bit, to tell you how he's doing."
Sally
helped everyone out.
"Well,
he's out of our hands now, so let's get cleaned up and try to
mingle," she advised. Nichol seconded.
"Remember,
through good and through bad, you still have duties as
representatives of the people, so go made democracy work. Go party
and press flesh."
