July 12, 2004

In the real world, Director Une's real world counterpart, George Tenet, is officially out of work as CIA director. I had a chance to chat with him after he left Langley, giving him one more chance to use the agency's favorite emoticon...

:-x

They should put those on the spook T-shirts. I've been editing, as I'm sure no one has noticed, but now twenty chapters are up with the upgrades. I'm finally receiving reviews, and I've diversified myself with a field of short stories on the site.
I have a collection of Robin Hood letters up. There's also a parable in the Road to Perdition universe, a short based on the Book of Daniel, I guess, and a little humorous slice of Americana based on a Washington Irving story.
I've been researching the net with the powerful Mozilla Firefox browser, and I've found some great resources out there. I also toured the old reliable Global archives, the Willow Rosenburg of military writing resources. Speaking of Willow, has anyone else noticed that most of the great diversified fanfic writers also explore the Buffyverse?

Oh yeah, I extend my thanks to Ukchana for being constructive. Next to the Viscount, you're my Willow- or Xander.
And a thanks Anonymous, if that's your real name. Besides research and editing, I've taken Ukchana's advice, and read a book. Reading actually is a regular hobby of mine. At the time of my last Gundam Wing submission, it was Robin Cook, then I picked up a William Gibson/Bruce Sterling collaboration, got bored with it, and bought Blind Man's Bluff from a book store. The Difference Engine will probably be more interesting when I read it some more, but the nonfiction submarine thriller earns my recommendation. Of course, all my readers must know I love submarines.
So far, I must say, the submarine fanfictions I've read so far don't measure up to the published tales, or even Global Security's raw information.
I admit, I've never read Hunt for Red October, though I plan too, and I own the movie, if that's any consolation, but here's how I rank the best submarine-inclusive books I've read:

The Sum of All Fears (haven't seen the movie, assumes the star actor downgraded Jack Ryan) Debt of Honor (Now that the Comanche's scrapped, Japan is safe to fight a trade war. Oh my!) Blind Man's Bluff (not yet finished, but I like it.) SSN (I know, it's a tie-in for a video game, but it doesn't seem cheapened at all.) Submarine! A Guided Tour... (The title rambles on a while. An early part of Tom Clancy's Guided Tour books.)
Honorable Mention...
Kilo Class. (Technically alright, but I couldn't imagine the United
States going to such lengths to keep the PRC from acquiring a diesel-
electric boat.)

How do the fanfictions rank?

Carrier: Dire Straits (The Admiral's WW III battle in the Formosa Strait. Action driven, surface centered. Lacks character development, but the plot's competent and well researched.) Transient (Lefire's Command and Conquer submarine short. Done passably well.) #3 doesn't exist in my experience, but I'll see if someone wrote a passable U-571 story or something.

Well, that's enough talk for now. Time for Heero to perform some
gratuitous violence.

Columbia

Balboa's affiliate abodes in a neighborhood well zoned from anything a made man could find distasteful, and just like most places illicit enterprising men chose to live, this place had the thick security walls, the botanist-kept gardens, the stables, and all else.
Heero rode the sidewalk as an indelible part of such an ambiance, as the old-fashioned paperboy. Heero pedaled as confidently as any stealthy warrior from his ancestral country, not grossing a double take or even a worthy first look-over.
Shortly after starting his paper circuit, Yuy met up with the party on the massive front porch, the sort commonly seen in the Southern United States. Lawn chairs canopied by vivid umbrellas extended the man's outdoor social area beyond the confines of the roofed porch, and, as Heero's informant told him, a sea of people spilled in and out of this area in the afternoons.
Servants refilled tequila and fruity wine coolers into the glass tumblers of lounging men and women, as the informant told him they'd be doing, and one Good Samaritan had the good will to tell the estate owner that the paper had arrived.
"Bueno," the thirty-odd year old Spaniard from the island of Ibiza replied, at hearing of his presence.
"We'd all like to know who else has blown up," Heero heard him mutter. A smile crept on the assassin's face. He's pleasured by first-hand tidbits on how his campaign is working, especially when he learns the psychological portion is wedging in well.
"Catch!" The length of a newspaper is typically a shade less than twenty-three inches, plenty of room to conceal one of the rare artillerist-issued Lugers with the eight-inch barrel. To the Gundam pilot's pleasure, the paper length even gives him purchase to fit a silencer on, and this he does.
His position on the parked bike makes shooting just a tad awkward, and having to fire from an enfolded paper compounds the difficulty, but Yuy manages a makeshift two-handed grip, and drums a quartet of 9x19 mm Parabellum steel jacketed ammunition along the torso of his target despite the distant pistol shot. The four trigger-pulls took all of one second, thumbing the safety took perhaps less time, and dropping the weapon into his bike basket rounded out the 2nd second. On the next moment, the pitched paper thudded over the drenched claret chest.
This wasn't truly an assassination attempt, for Heero didn't mind if the thug survived or not. In fact, he fully expected his prey to recover from four tiny holes sorted helter-skelter over his previously fit torso, but the hit makes a great PSYOP (Psychological Operation) anyway.
In a flash, he's gone, and a bloated security team is left dumbfounded.
Istanbul, Turkey

"The need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere."
-Karl Marx

The militants, the Russian arms expert nicknamed Stalingrad doesn't think of them as terrorists, have a medic hustling from the relative safety of one side of the bridge under the eye of the Russian's LED sight.
Stalingrad pans right, centers the man's red cross on his perfectly zeroed rifle, roughly amputates one shoulder.
"The medic isn't a Moslem. He has a red cross instead of a red crescent," the shooter says loudly enough for his buddy to hear.
"They have a new tactic, I see. Our foe's arcing hand grenades over the wall, see?" The pupil sniper hazarded a peek, steamed in anger, but the Russian seemed oblivious, and continued his lecture.
"You see they're using potato-mashers, a type we don't see very often. They could have their own munitions factory, but it's more likely they're being supplied by a non-western arms dealer, for the unofficial western standard is the "pineapple" grenade. It's my understanding that the only major suppliers of potato-mashers are the Argentine munitions plants for the South American cartels, and the Independent Chinese Provinces for the opium cartel consumption. Interesting, wouldn't you say?"
The young Turk, leaning dangerously over the balcony, heard none of the musing. Instead, he more directly confronted the problem, by leaning out and plinking enemy helmets.
"Duck! You're exposed, stupid!" Across the channel, the quad-cannon anti-aircraft gun opened its own line of discourse to the sniper perch, even as Stalingrad swept his pupil's feet with a soccer-style kick.
Sweat and grit covered them both, anxiety seized them, and death pinned them.
"Well, our perch is compromised," the elder said darkly. Below, Franklin Brankovic and his officers in blue rode out the pelting under the dashes of their armored patrol cars. The weathering didn't last long, but when things quieted, disappointment loomed.
"They covered their retreat perfectly."

On the thirtieth parallel, Southern Indian Ocean

He moves efficiently
Beyond security
Great opportunity awaits
Airport florescent
Creature of habit
Labored breathing and sallow skin
Recycled air
Moving sidewalks
Great opportunity awaits

-R.E.M Airportman

The waters are completely undisturbed by man-made machines around Suerez Diego, and Admiral Heidi Revere's fleet still floats on the ocean surface, passively searching for submerged stragglers. The last glimmer on the acoustic screens had a mobile-suit chugging southeast for Mozambique at over twenty knots, and may have survived the Armageddon it's suspected location received, but then dropped dead quiet.
The Preventer called Pagan has tried every trick to identify remaining members of the fleet, tricks like triangulating the slightest fish timbre with hydrophones stashed impossible distances away. He's ordered mothballed and cold stored obsolete hydrophones turned on, confiscated data from seismic resonance detectors, in hopes of finding the right blips, and has the most unsuited planes dropping sonar buoys scheduled for melting down. He's even gone so far as to unwrap new sonar buoys and hydrophones marked for service no sooner than A.C. 198. The budget office is going to have a fit.
One would think these measures would be enough, but Pagan is even know patching through to the president to press the merchant marine and airlines to probe for snorkeling diesels and mobile-suits on the ocean surface, and has already confiscated overhead photos for satellites and colonies, and contacted mayors along coastal cities to arrange sea-side scouting parties. Yachting clubs, the fleet has heard, are having a party of it, and are dipping their own microphones under the waterline in hopes of spotting a contact.
"We're going about this in the form of miserably impoverished people, wouldn't you say, Captain?" The glibness drew a weary smile from Dent's superior.
"You're too young to remember, but Pagan's an old pro at uncloaking secrets, because he's too tenacious to let a single detail go. And he's still relevant today. This guy wrote the book on espionage, every kind there is," she searched the bridge. "Chief, could you oversee the bridge? I wish to inspect the deck."
"Aye, Ma'am."

Author's Note: I need to end this chapter now, because I've kept away for longer then usual, and writing the next portion of the story could take awhile. I think the number will be up to twenty-three, and I'm certain the story will break fifty-thousand words once that new addition is finished.
Coming up, Trowa and Duo are going to do some more pro bono work for the Preventers, so that should be a lot of fun. Also, I have plans for a lot of personal interactions within Maxwell House, and Trowa will hire an Italian private investigator to stalk a lawyer and his clients. The chapter will go for legal maneuvers, laughs, and a disturbing and perhaps funny dream sequence for Zechs.
All this on what I'll call: "Abettor! Mens Rea."