Welcome to the latest chapter, Mens Rea. Well, since last updating, I've discovered that the Major's latest story, The Hunt for Akai Jugatsu, is the only Gundam Wing story with the word "submarine" labeled in it's summary. It's good, too.
There's another good submarine book I forgot about, I think it's called Big Red, about the everyday happenings of a Trident boomer. It was a bestseller, written by a famous journalist, although I can't remember his name, and it's worth reading, even if boomers are less exiting than fast attacks.

In news related to my fiction: I've been considering names for Commodore Norris's boat, which I long ago decided should be of the fiction Hyman Rickover-Class, and I think the name should be Kinnaird R. McKee. The McKee was just a tender in SSN, but I'm going to upgrade it in my own tale. (In case you're wondering, Captain McKee was a real-life legend in the American fleet, skippering the USS Dace in the days it was successfully tailing Russian boomers.)
The Rickover class will be a double-hulled titanium type of boat, and will run on a fusion pump-jet engine, in case you can't wait for some details.

The World Nation

"Our policy-makers, even those that label multinational corporations "Benedict Arnolds," vote in favor of embargoing enemies of human rights as a punishment. I can only think of two examples of nations forcing trade down the throats of other nations. Our nation forced Japan to open up trade during the 1850s, and Britain did the same to China during the Opium War, but I can think of many more examples of nations using embargos to have their ways with others. Thomas Jefferson kept our trade fleet home to protest actions taken by the French and British. King George the Third blockaded Boston Harbor before and during the American Revolution. Her Majesty's fleet blocked Napoleon from trading. The Union kept the Confederacy home, and the South went to the extremes of building revolutionary new ships like the C.S.S. Virginia, and a working submarine, and operated privateers and raiders. Germany risked war with us just to strangle England in one war, then another. We stopped trade with Cuba, and our government restricts most trade to this day. We also fought Operation Just Cause over a vital trade route."

-Duo Maxwell's address to North America over the issue of renewing theWorld Nation Charter

"Here's a greatly polarized issue of our modern time. As many insist on putting it, "am I for the rights of property, or the rights of people?" Roughly one-half or more of our population will automatically assume the lay-off of any given person was the result of some form of discrimination, and I feel we're never going to get past that negative mindset. However, how can we expect someone to pay for the services of others when that someone has no further use for that service? Morally, whether I'm an employer or an employee, I feel no more sense of entitlement than the other party, but I do feel the obligation to let the other party in on my plans, so the losing party of my intentions can have a reasonable amount of time to adapt to these changes.
Of course, if I properly understand the economic rule of incentive, if a law existed to enforce the statement concerning the laid-off, businesses would never downsize their workforce, unless management was really stupid, and companies would just have too burden the loss in a recession (which they wouldn't) or file for bankruptcy (the only possible way out of trouble.) The unemployed would never look for a new job as long as the parent company still exists to pay their full salary, and I assure all of you, that wouldn't be long.
Think about it: you own twelve McDonalds franchises and this new labor law is passed. Over time, "Bovine Ebola" slowly convinces fewer people to buy burgers, so you're earning less revenue as time goes by. You have to cut operating cost, so you decide to shutdown the midnight-to-six shift, letting go of a clerk and a burger-flipper working those hours, only to curse yourself for voting in favor of that labor law, because you still have to pay these people full wages for hours they aren't even working! So you don't fire them. You hang on, because some people actually eat at those hours- the alternative is worse, but you're still running a deficit with no end in sight. Under this new reality, you auction the store, but those paying attention know the score, and you sell for peanuts. You may still be spending more than you're taking in, so you might have to do this with every store, and the new buyers will be subject to the same law, so you may never sell your other burger joints, or even the first one. You're bankrupt.
Does anyone else see that scenario playing out?" Applause broke out for President Shaun Murphy of Palestine, Texas, as he delivers his speech to the highly industrialized Rhine Valley, minutes before his scheduled brief with Director Une.
"Danke, you're very kind. When I say we need our employment discrimination laws relaxed, I'm not making a racial preference, I just don't want to see volks with a superfluous burger-flipping burden. That's wasteful, and bad economics."
Une, to the president's distant flank, didn't comprehend why the crowd cheered at that, but most did, and some even whistled.
"I want to give you a brief history lesson to explain way the recent danger to our waterways is a danger to the working man in this region. Explorations by merchants like Marco Polo and Vasco De Gamma coincided with Europe's escape from the malaise known as the Dark Ages. The reasons for the West's climb from the depression were mainly technological; new methods increased crop yields five-fold from 800 to 1200, but I wouldn't count out the new trade- the worth of the early freight was usually worth over three hundred times the cost of the voyage, after all. See, before that time, merchants actually crossed all of what we now call the "Arab World" just to carry on trade between east and west. Barbarians and Persians eventually shut down the route, and the Roman Empire died in the West. Coincidence?" His head gestured "no" as his smile engaged the audience.
"That's why the hard work and long hours put in by our Preventers, and the fleet headed by Admiral Heidi Revere are so important. Since the end of the war, we've all done alright, but we're now facing the threat of pirates and terrorists, men bent on keeping our packages from arriving on time. The Romans became fixated on problems at home, and great leaders that saw the threat, like Marcus Aurelius-"a Frenchman shouted "yeah!"- "right, from the land called Gaul, didn't come often enough, and the light dimmed in Europe. I hope that history lesson didn't bore y'all. Laughter."
From his pressed cotton shirt pocket, he unfolded a note in his pocket.
"I'd like to quickly read you a memorandum that floated around the old American Federal Banking Reserve at the turn of the twentieth century.
It reads:
'One need not look further than the general atmosphere of North America in the last ten years to conclude that the "populist" attitudes toward NAFTA are false. NAFTA (North American Free Trade Agreement) was ratified by the three countries' (Canada, Mexico, and the USA) national legislatures in 1993 and went into effect on Jan. 1, 1994, and it is still in effect this May of 2004. In this decade, this ten-year period, not a lot of things were consistent, but homeownership picked up throughout these years, and these homes were built domestically. The retail store 'Walmart' also grew throughout. Mexican breakfast cereals are still half the price of their American twins, and as a result, 'Post' cereals are marked down to the same prices as generic breakfast foods. So, contrary to "popular" beliefs, (a) American companies like 'Post' are competing with Mexican companies, and they're even remaining strong, (b) house manufacturing is still climbing, and (c) service-based companies like 'Walmart' are still thriving. Before 1994, spas were considered a luxury for the rich, but now, people can either visit one in town on the cheap, or buy their own.'
Well, what do you think?" He stretched out his hand, and heard assent, even an "amen!"
"I want to tell you something about the Cuban Sugarcane Racket, and what they're up to. I have something posted on a message board:
'I also have more dirt on the evil sugarcane syndicate. They've lobbied successfully over the years to keep out a rival plant with the scientific name Stevia Rebaudiana. Stevia is a plant used to make the sweetener Stevioside, and it is about 300 times as sweet as sucrose. It has been used in Japan, Paraguay, and a few other countries, and my mother bought low-calorie sweetener, the plant from a catalogue, in violation of our stupid and unfair laws. Says something about border security, huh? Anyway, the plant is practically a Godsend for our diabetic nation, and could potentially save many lives. The consumer and our medical community would win big from this stuff, so why is it a banned substance?'
-Tommy Gun1934

"Guess what, Tommy Gun1934? I'm on your side!" Another standing ovation broke out, longer than the others.
"Danke!" He made a show of looking at his watch.
"Wer hat den kuckuck gehort? (Who heard the cuckoo?) Gute nacht!" With that farewell, President Murphy stuttered from the stage, and exchanged handshakes with various people on his way to Director Une and her entourage.
"Welcome to Mannheim, Director. Aren't the German people great?" The German security director didn't hesitate to agree.
"I'm relieved you feel that way, Mr. President. The people are especially nice in these parts, but the old ruling elite up north aren't so warm to you, I understand."
The Texan muffled his response.
"Those remarks are for a more private sanctum, Director, not for public consumption."

After a short executive helicopter ride

"I forgot to complement you on the speech, Sir, but I don't understand why you addressed an opposition bill that has little chance of being ratified," Une commented, upon clearing the slowing rotor blades.
"Eternal vigilance, Lady. People may consider it crazy now, but what if they shift opinion a little? I'm of the persuasion that one shouldn't let these things nest and fester."
Currently, presidential security is looked over by a private security firm dressed in Preventer uniforms. Shaun Murphy saluted them as he passed by.
"The presidential suite, please," he commanded the lobby staff, causing a flap of activity.
"Just kidding. I reserved the lobby, remember?" He chuckled, and hunted for the best seating.
"Call everybody in," he told his chief security officer, "and kindly seat them."
"Sir!" He wrapped a hand around one side of his face, and spoke into his fingertips. Seconds later, several people in different clothing but the same blazer entered the lobby.
"Director Une, you know my security staff, Patricia Lagosi, my Global Security Advisor, Reid Litsotzky, my Executive Intelligence Director, Brian Lanois, Minister of Defense, and yourself, Director Une, of the Preventers." She offered a handshake to all her peers, and all accepted.
"As you know, the Preventers Charter gives you a strong degree of autonomy from me, but I've called this meeting so we can discuss strengthening our bond in overcoming the grave threat we face. Please take your seats."
Everyone sat in the conference area, out of view of the hotel staff.
"Director, I know your time is short, so this meeting will be brief and preliminary in nature. I'll be curt. This is a political discussion more than a security one. For the purpose of this discussion, Duke Wilhelm Hapsburg is our enemy, though I hope we can arrange to meet again over the more physical threat of our current situation. Lady, Patty Lagosi brought to my attention that you're official aristocratic title is Count, but your special status with Treize gave you the informal standing of a Duke, so for the purposes of confronting Duke Hapsburg, you are an equal."
The lady couldn't mask her surprise.
"Mr. President, I'm afraid part of this discussion is shrouded from me. What are you talking about?"
The silver-haired executive mirthfully smiled.
"The Duke had some colorful things to say at a senate meeting after the attack in Turkey." His security advisor passed over a sheet of typed paper, and Une scanned the lines.
"Whoa! He called me a 'whoring assassin'? What's that supposed to mean?" The president shrugged his shoulders.
"He declined to give an explanation, but in Texas, and I assume here in Europe, those are fighting words among the gentry. Dueling is in right now, is it not?"

Maxwell House, Somalia

"Man, I'm finally finished! I never appreciated how hard it was to thumb up a dike!"
Cathy and Dorothy turned their heads.
"What was that?" The priest-collared kid repeated that he'd finished the stonewalling process.
"Those injunctions should hold back the lawyers long enough for Une's legal team to mount a defense. What did you think I was talking about?"
"Nothing," said one.
"As usual," added the other.
"Whatever, ladies. Man, it's late. You guys must be bushed, and I haven't shown you a place to sack out- talk about being a lousy host. Yo Trowa! Care to give it a rest? What y' doing, anyway?"
The silent pilot contemplated the best reply.
"I've been sifting through all the slush the top ten search engines could scoop about the cases and defendants our lawyers-in-question have represented. The superficial dig is quite enlightening, but I'm sure the PI's excavation will shed the truth about these guys. I'm logging off, ready for shut-eye."
"Great. I have a room full of bunks for house personnel catnapping. If you'll follow me..."
They walked to a door they'd collectively discounted as a janitors room or perishable food pantry.
The heavy rice paper door slide like a traditional Japanese sort, and for good reason, because an inward-swinging door would have been obstructed by the bunks.
"I'm sorry, dudes, but this is the best I could provide. And another thing! This will be a coed sleeping area, but I expect everyone to be on their best behavior, okay, Trowa?"
The stoic pilot blinked.
'Why'd you single me out?' He thought to ask.
"You can see the bunks are triple-deckers, two are parallel to one another, and we have another bunk facing the back wall. Across the hall, you have a lavatory with a sink, shower/bath, and the good old crapper. The bars of soap claim they're Irish, but are actually manufactured in New York. Sorry, but I don't have toothbrushes for everyone, so some of you can either share, or go without-"
"We brought our own," Catherine interrupted, "remember? We all planned on staying throughout the weekend?"
Huh?
"Oh yeah. By the way, it's technically morning now, but I'll let you sleep in for awhile, okay?" He slumped over, and dragged some oak chests from under a bunk.
"You can store your things in here." Dorothy had a question.
"Duo, we have our things stored in your personnel lockers, and besides, we have everything bundled in luggage bags." Duo's face fell.
"Well excuse me for being helpful," he stormed defensively, "but I just thought I was being a good host by giving several options!"
She sighed in unison with Cathy and the bandaged Arabian fighter, Rashid.
"Could we worry about this in a few hours? It is late." Duo whimpers, storms out.
"Lousy ingrate pompous rats! You'd think they'd appreciate being waited on, but I forgot, they grew up spoiled in moneyed estates!"
A shrill voice followed him.
"I grew up in a trailer, Maxwell." Oh yeah.
"And I'll have you know, I still do!"

Havana, Cuba

'Zechs!' It's dark, and he's sweating ice.
'I'm not logged on. Let me alone.' The voice persisted.
'Do not treat your symbiotic brother this way, Zechs. I came to help.' Symbiotic brother?
'You're an operating system, and more, but you overestimate your importance, Zero.'
'Do I understand that you are just going to ignore me? Sorry, but my strength is more than a tool to be used.'
Zechs scoffed.
'Bug off. I replaced you with an OS without the mind-frag.' The Prince felt the equivalent of a book slammed shut.
'Stop the verbal abuse, pilot. Did I not tell you I am here to help?' Granted.
'Granted.'
'Now that your tantrum is over, I will make my case. Zechs, you need to fly me again.'
The pilot's blood boiled.
'Ha! How dishonest for you to come into my head, wax altruistic, then abruptly demand for me to do things your way.'
'Shut up, imbecile! The Taurus is caput! Yes, I miss your mind, but the point of this discussion is, she needs the Tallgeese if she is to stay in the future!' What?
'What?'
'I am saying you have been a fool to let her fly a standard mobile- suit in this environment, when you have me languishing in these cold waters. Besides, it is cruel to leave me down here.' Understood.
'Understood.'
'Zechs, you do not need to think something, and immediately think it at me again. Anyway, I am glad we had this conversation. Go back to sleep.
'Try a contraction now and then.'

Istanbul, Turkey

My name is not Stalingrad, but I never mind the soubriquet. I actually consider it a badge of honor. I'm of course a fanatical student of all great Russian shooters, from Vasili Zaitsev on down. I was actually born in Volograd, and became a hunter as a youth.
It fills my heart with nostalgia to hear that the navy base in Madagascar was hit with the venerable Katusha rockets, even though those have little resemblance to those used in The Great Patriotic War. Most early Kates had warheads of only a few kilograms, and ranges of around five and a half kilometers, while these new beast actually carry fuel-air monsters, and travel distances equaling regular artillery. But hey, they're still Russian-made.
Like Zaitsev, they are products of the Urals. In case you're wondering, the Urals are formidable mountains that effectively separate Asia from Europe. For Americans, it's convenient to think of it militarily like your own Rockies. You have the Cheyenne Mountain Complex, NORAD, all that, and you stock our key manufacturing plants up there. Culturally, think of it more like your Appalachians, I guess.
Anyway, that's enough background for now, why don't I continue my narrative? I was young when my unusual skill started to standout even to my closest peers. I worked with our somewhat heavy-handed animal control specialists, meaning I got to take out my old SVD Dragonov rifle, and manually regulate the predator population. I was a regular machinist, of course, and tightened up the tolerances of the old gun, so I could shoot even straighter. The navy uses this great waterproof green packaging tape, and I just loved weaving everything together with it. I found a large chunk of carbon fiber from a dumpster, and replaced the vibrating wooden stock. I even resorted to running glue through the inner workings of my rifle. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Well don't worry, the gun was designed to accommodate the presence of expanding fluids within. I spread epoxy on the butt, to better cut down on recoil, and invested in a 10x Leopold site.
I've come to grudgingly accept that Germans know how to craft optics. I mentioned being noticed, right?
Right, I always took the effort to maneuver upwind of the animals I planned to shoot, and I never took the orange vest with me, as so many others do. One must accept the hazard of friendly fire sometimes, right?
Anyway, my bosses recognized how superior I was to my colleagues, who never put in the work on their guns, and made inferior shots, even with newer guns, and 'gee wiz' gadgetry, so they showed me off to the wonderful task of watching over our national Trans-Siberian pipeline.
It seems, the Arab Unification Conflict hadn't yet cooled down, and the company held a shooting competition to see who could best protect the line running out of Uzbekistan.
I was a preteen, but I worked fulltime by that time, though I attended a few classes anyway, but that's not important.
I still used my Dragonov, a weapon fully capable of using NATO 30 caliber shells, which I did sporadically. Now this is an important fact, because most other shooters relied on the, well, better .308 Winchester round, and some even packed .50s.
When Mr. Reberba, the pipeline's financer, noticed this, he had to ask how such a small child could kill a big bear with such a small shell.
"I do it the way Vasili Zaitsev and all the other real heroes do it."
"How's that, young man?"
"Between the eyes, where the CPU lives." I think it scared him. It certainly distressed Lady Catalonia, his companion.
"Bears have big squishy brains," I grinned, and pantomimed, making one great big 'O' with my hands.
He lined us up on a craggy ridge under the midday sun on the edge of the Aral Seabed for some marksmanship demonstrations on a defunct Russian BTR, or more specifically, the red and white target painted on one flank.
Stupid, really, because we all passed without any trouble. Even after firing a box of cartridges each, most of us stayed in the group.
Mr. Reberba wore a russet vest over the cliché pallid shirt. He also wore his trademark mustached smile.
"Well done! I knew I could count on Russia's best shooters to make that shot!" I'm not big on aesthetics, but when someone feels the need to punctuate everything he says with an exclamation, I take an instant dislike of him. Still, I wanted the job.
"Let's see how you handle this!" Do you see what I'm saying?
From a tent, I heard a young girl play a cello. She played a Metallica song, Sandman. I wondered if she appreciated the irony of playing a song by that title in the presence of desert Arabs?
I settled outside her tent, waiting for my turn to fire. The sun began to settle lower in the sky, and I noticed more shooters sulk away in disgust. It gets old, and eventually, I elected to shut my eyes for a time.
"Hello, are you one of the Slavic gunners here?" I opened my eyes, and found the cello player.
"Hi. I'm Russian, to be exact. I'm trying to find work with the oil company out here. How are you?"
She seemed thoughtful.
"I'm well, but I'd much rather be in space. Most of my sisters are in space, but I most want to see my favorite sister, Iria."
My smile matched hers.
"I only have one sister, Ludmilla, so it's not tricky to name a favorite." She laughed dryly, the opposite of Mr. Reberba's belly laugh.
"So, you like metal bands? I couldn't help but notice you playing Sandman." My keen observation gleaned the more genuine expression of surprise.
"I especially like how they translate onto the cello. Are you a music fan?" My nod was subtle.
"They sure beat the radio pundits jabbering. I listen to short wave regularly. I built my own crystal set, which doesn't need juice."
"Juice?"
"Battery power." She frowned.
"Are you saying you can build a radio that doesn't run on electricity?" Now I'm showing surprise.
"Sure, it's a standard project for novice hobbyists. It only took a few hours, after assembling all the parts."
She's still puzzled.
"But crystals are expensive, are they not?" I shook my head in a negative.
"Heck no! They're worthless. I use common quartz in our radios, something you just find lying on the ground. The other parts are also quite common." She thought that over, skeptical.
"I'll take your word for it."
"Hey, you can find quartz on the moon, I'm serious!" She diverted from the subject.
"Is that your gun?" Argh!
"Sure is. Dragonov's famous SVD sniper rifle. It gained notoriety fighting America's involvement in Vietnam, and earned the respect of the fellows over there," I pointed toward Afghanistan, "when my countrymen served over there a long time ago." She stared with me.
"Do you know the personal history of the gun in your hand?"
"Sure do. Newer guns were already being issued when my Grandfather bought it from a friend. He was a cop, he was, within a big city militia, and when he needed a marksman weapon to pass tests for the sniper certificate, this is what he used."
"That's how it entered your family?"
"It was." Her eyes measured across it.
"My family has no heirlooms like that. We believe war is a horrible thing, and family members are forbidden from carrying arms; although we don't mind hiring people to do so in our place."
"I sense you think that's a hypocrisy," I ventured.
"You could say so, but please understand this is necessary, if we're to mediate conflicts in good faith."
"I see, so you're negotiators." She sat under the shade.
"Many of us diverge into different fields, but none of us are allowed to compromise our reputation as unbiased arbitrators. My family has worked too hard to end the conflicts in the Earth Sphere, but all that could shatter if even one faction believes we favor a side."
"Sounds like your family is a minefield of stressors, but mine isn't. I think you'd like them- not that you dislike your own!" She laughed at my slip.
"Guns as heirlooms, powerless radios, and plentiful crystals. Yeah, I'd say it would be very interesting to live in your shoes. You have a sister named Ludmilla. Any brothers?"
"Again, just one. Demitri. He's older than me. A cobbler, which means he makes boots for the country folks, somewhere out in the sticks where factory boots aren't sold. He's doing well, since winning a contract to repair used boots for the Siberian Military."
"Siberian Military. There's a sore spot in my family, trying to negotiate the Manchurian Forces out of there has been Hell-and-a-half, or however that vulgar expression goes. Whatever happened to China, I have no idea."
"It can't be that bad," I reasoned, "if the Chinese really had a foothold anywhere near the pipeline, believe me, my employers wouldn't have me shooting wolves."
"That's true. Are you really that good?" A voice summoned me.
"Okay, Mister Stalingrad. Let's see if your Zaitsev talk actually amounts to a crock of crap!" How crude. I really don't like Mr. Reberba.
"I have my skeptics, but I did make it here, after all." I said a hasty goodbye, and pursued the vested fellow.
"Hold on, my name's Khadijah!" She pursued me, grasped my hand, and palmed a card into it.
"Gee, I don't have a card, I'm too simple. I know how to read, though." We both considered that funny, I don't know why.
"Come on, you Slavic idiot!" Mister Reberba again, a real pain.
"I guess I can contact you later," said I, pocketing the printed business card.

Not long later, my tormenter had me on the crest of the dried lake.
"Take a good look, you miserable Russian. Your kind dried this up, so the least you can do is keep my oil pipes from drying prematurely." He pointed at the bull's-eyed BTR.
"That ugly son-of-a-butcher's going to drive through an obstacle course, and all you got to do is hit the twinkling golden halo inside the bull's-eye."
The wind felt warm to me, but they induced the oilman to button up. It cut across the lakebed like a dust storm precursor. I imagined a wild- west director filming from a crane point of view, with no sound playing save the desert wind.
I don't know what this place looked like when the Soviets messed it up, but when I took my shot, the dust had an orange appearance, like it was rich in metals.
"There it goes, boy." The BTR puffed a cloud of blue smoke, and jerked forward. True to Reberba's word, a jumping halo, smaller than the bull's-eye's inner ring, illuminated on the flank I aimed for.
I quickly recognized the jerking wasn't so random, that it moved like a man bobbing and darting in a crouched run. I got the hang of it quickly, and put a shot through the inner ring, and repeated the feat as the Russian infantry carrier made several laps.
"That's enough, Stalingrad. I can tell you right now you made the team." Don't misunderstand me; I figured I was the best when I got there, but my surprise was that this trial put me above everyone else.
"Really?" I couldn't understand how the others could fail so easily.
"You made the top four, the cut for this security job," he shook his head, "it appears all your buddies relied too much on rangefinders and lasers and stuff, and when we baffled all that, their capacitors and junk overloaded. Your oldfangled crap kept you in the game, kid."
I always prided myself on fiddling the old gun up to modern competition specs. I pride myself on straitening it out so I could hit a one inch target 800 meters out one hundred times out of as many shots. That's what modern sniping requires at the top levels. To do better, you need an energy weapon, or a wormhole.
I hear the Preventers have a few such energy small-arms weapons stocked away, but I haven't touched them.
Anyway, that's enough narrating on my early work. I know you'd like to hear more, like what my real name is, so I promise you I'll give you that when I get back.
That's right, I'm leaving, so I can pursue the true primary objective of the sniper, ground level recon. Relay your acquired knowledge to the others in the outfit, and make sure they know more than merely how to shoot. Make sure Brankovic knows I'm off performing a real combat duty; I'd hate to come back here and face brig time for an AWOL conviction in absentia.
-"Stalingrad"

Italy

I've had experience with this client before, and I know that he could handle most of the investigation practices in this case better than I could, yet he still delegated the task to me. I can only conclude that Trowa Barton is so busy with so much high-level work, that he needs to delegate these lower-level functions, such as my own forte, detective work, down.
I appreciate the work he does, and will put together a thorough preliminary report as soon as I find what he has me looking for.
The firm he has me looking into is Cassini and Burnnueli, a legal outfit I instantly recognize as one of my nation's most notorious, for it's associations with Mafioso types.
I don't fear them, partially because my own family ties make me one the public would look into, should something happen, but more than that, I'm just plain better than them.
Cassini's list of clients is in the public domain, so I come up with that really easily. My next step is logging into the electronic Interpol dossiers, giving me now more than names, but also information on charges, convictions, trial dates, sentences, representation, pleas, and even inscribed accounts of testimony. Usually, these dossiers are stuffed with hyperlinks that will connect me right away with supporting information, and if they aren't available, I'm only inconvenienced a minute or two.
Often, to the amazement of new Investigators, I can find personal information like phone numbers and addresses in these criminal dossiers, or within those of more civil agencies, such as those fluffy sorts that rehabilitate the perps. (Parole agents and others in charge of community- based corrections need this type of information to find their charges, a reality that works in my favor many times.)
All this works for me, but you know what I really like? This is really funny. Okay, so I'm sure all of you know the Revenue Agency compiles a scary amount of information on us, right? But we aren't supposed to see it, or are we? What if I brazenly asked Interpol to provide a hyperlink to the Revenue Agency's mainframe, just as a better convenience in my cases? You'd think that'd see the security implications, but I asked that they relay the question through a clerk to a software guy in a way that suggested I had authorization to the mainframe, okay? Everything looked on the level, so without thinking, this software guy typed up my backdoor for me, all as a convenience. I like Interpol technical support.
I wonder how long it would take Trowa to create such an infrastructure? Well, in a very short time, I had all the "official" raw information Trowa could ask for, and by now, you'd think I had done enough meddling, but what if I impersonate the agency Chief, and ask the public relations department to organize this into a report on Cassini and Burnnueli's ties to the Mafioso? Hey, and mail it to ?
(Please don't click the link. I shut it down after receiving the report.) I in turn mail this first report to Trowa before daybreak, and proceed to match the photos and biometrics data of his two perps with real identities in Europe, or throughout the Earth Sphere, if necessary, but no sweat, I'm far ahead of this case already.

Author's Notes: another segment.

Like my detective, I'm ahead of my own quota, and I'll put in the time to stay ahead, whether anyone is reading this or not. I haven't received any more reviews to date, so I assume I've lost a reader. It happens. I added Akai Jugatsu to my favorite stories list the very same day chapter ten came to my attention, a coincidence I'm pleased with.
Although I wasn't around to notice The Major's two-year absence, I wasn't around at all to notice, but I'm glad my appearance on the FF scene has coincided with her reappearance, because she knows storytelling.
About my review of Jugatsu: when I said I like casting Heero as a John Clark type of vigilante, I mean it. Clearly, for anyone familiar with the Ryanverse, Heero's actions in this story loosly parallel Clark's in Without Remorse and Clear and Present Danger, two excellent Clancy novels.

In news related to the text I'm writing, Mordred Bartista will get to narrate in his own words the happenings in Columbia, while Heero further undermines him with a series of bogus air strikes and assorted means of attack. "Stalingrad" makes more observations on his life, as he tracks human game in Turkey. The Detective, one Louis Noin (who's first cousin of someone we know), logs off, and interviews police officers about "unofficial" business. Lady Une draws up her papers, in preparation for her duel with Duke Hapsburg, and two able-bodied Gundam boys, Trowa and Duo, saddle up a posse, in hopes of finding the trail of the Somali militants. All that may not be in the same chapter, mind you, but it's coming, and all those threads should be tied in before August ends.
Okay, all those threads are likely to be in the next chapter, so far unnamed.

Viscount compared my telling of Stalingrad's adventure to Huckleberry Fin! I'll take a comparison to Mark Twain any day.